My mother's love

My mother struggled with depression and found solace when drinking wine. Her therapist recommended that she should find new ways to find peace within her life. My mother tried everything and almost gave up until she started to paint. I never saw my mother's paintings, she always said that her paintings were a window into her soul and it felt too personal for her to share them with anybody. I would ask from time to time but eventually I would always give up. When she passed away, it surprised me to find out that she destroyed her paintings after making them. Only one survived and that was only because she didn't have time to destroy it. When she was about to go to hospice she made me promise her that I would not look at the painting and to burn it.

After the funeral I found the painting quickly, it was sitting in the middle of her craft room with what use to be a tan tarp but was now covered in dried paint with many different colors. I decided at that moment I would leave that room for last and I would pack everything in the house first. In my head it felt like it would be a proper send off for my mother and my childhood home. After packing up all her furniture and possessions I made my way to the craft room. I turn on the lights and began to tear up at the sight of my mother's covered painting. I had already placed the kerosene and the matches by the firepit in the backyard now all that's left is the painting.

When I gently picked up the painting I started to remember when I used to lay in the middle of this room when I was kid. I would close my eyes and feel the warm sun beam down on me. I remember sometimes when I would open my eyes my mother would standing by the door frame. I could never tell what she was thinking she would just stare and walk away. Sometimes with a half smile that I could never figure out if it was happy or sad.

As I walked out the back door into the backyard a faint wind blew past me with a smell that awakened another memory within me. I started to remember how my mom would play with me outside by chasing me around the yard. She would last for maybe 10 minutes before walking back to the table in the backyard to have another sip of wine. I remember cherishing those moments because it was rare for my mother to be so happy and joyful. I would laugh the most during those days.

When I reached the fire pit I carefully placed the painting down into the center of the firepit without the colorful tarp falling off. As I looked around my backyard one last time I looked through the window that once held my childhood bedroom. I remembered when I was in high school I would get frustrated with my mother when she would get too clingy after drinking. She would hug me and tell me she loved me. I grew frustrated because she would never say those words sober, I knew it was the wine talking and not her. She would beg me not to leave her, to not go to a college that was too far away. I felt guilty for feeling resentful towards her. How could I be angry? Look at everything she did for me. I should be grateful for a mother like her. It would be easier to make her happy instead. I mean she did everything that she could for me. Besides, her being overly loving was better than her getting angry when she was sober. I learned to ignore her and to just go straight to my room afterschool. To avoid being seen by her or else be trapped by either anger or guilt. It began to grow darker outside as it got later. I poured the kerosene over the dull tarp until it was soaked.

As I lit the match I thought to myself why was I doing this for her? Was it out of guilt or out of love for my mother? I shook my head in an effort to erase the thought from my head. I lit the match and threw it at the worn out tarp. As I watched the tarp blacken I began to be taken hold by another memory. Those random nights when my mother would come into my room hug me while I was asleep. It would always wake me up because she did it harshly as if I was an old coat she threw on quickly to get the mail. Sometimes she would mumble to herself as she held me. Shewould apologize and make false promises. She would think I was asleep but sometimes I would cry quietly always hoping this will be the time she notices instead of making herself feel better. As the painting burned I noticed that the tarp was burning faster than the painting. I began to weep as more of the painting began to reveal itself within the flames. I couldn't look away and felt instant guilt for breaking my mother's last wish. That guilt was quickly replaced by overwhelming anger. I began hysterically crying and screaming. I was on my knees with my head to the ground. I could feel the heat from the flames on my head and the cold grass on my forehead.

I am not sure how long I was there for. At one point I must have fallen asleep because when I awoke all that was left was the darkness of the night and the small embers of what was left of the painting. I stood up and shivered. I began to walk away from the fire pit. The house seemed smaller now. It was as if the house itself was trying to guilt me into forgiving it. With a sigh I felt the anger leave my body. As I got closer to the house my mother’s guilt rested upon my soul o

nce again.