Burial

My mother was dead, and only now did I know. As I watched from the battered living room archway while she popped the cork to her second bottle that night and filled the contents of some stale yellowed glass, I numbly buzzed. My emotions were delayed, stuck like a dammed river in my mind. Their waters were still and stopped up with a mix of betrayal and hurt, but I could feel somewhere far down in the bottom of the river in the sediment of my conscience, there lay guilty relief. Relief that this would all be over, and each time I inhaled, the air I breathed in from the rotting house frame would no longer contain traces of her sharp breath that uttered repeated promises of intervention, control over her addiction, and that the borrowed money she took from me would be spent on bettering herself, maybe getting a job or anything to get her off her ass, and eventually paid back. I exhaled, and when I breathed in again, it was short and pointed in a quick hitch of breath, wanting to take in the least amount of the fermented air that smelled of wine and mildew. My breath out was lengthy as I watched her blindly stare at the tv, eyes glassy and robotic as she went to take another sip from the unwashed cup.

The old neglected brown loveseat she sat on that used to be a lovely velvet red creaked from the stress of her weight when she shifted from a sitting position to laying down, now facing me as I stood blankly in the doorway. I wore a casual lazy outfit that consisted of a plain white shirt with the 7-eleven logo and black knee-length shorts- my home clothes. We both said nothing as an awkward expression of guilt adorned her face. "You're back early," Her eyes quickly darted to the worn-out grandfather clock on the opposite wall, and then took notice of my outfit. "I thought you had work today?" She asked with a suspicion that only peeped through in her tone, her expression still stiff at the premise of being caught drinking. Again. "No, most shops are closed on Christmas." I crossed my arms and eyed the half-empty bottle of wine on the console table. "I can see the liquor store wasn't." She meekly followed my gaze. “Psh, thish? Nah, it was just layin’ around.” A corner of her lip curled up, but she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t do that anymore. At least not now that she was missing most of her teeth. “I decided to schelebrate a lil’. Christhmasth time to clean out fe cabinets right? End this thing once and for all.” She looked back up at me from the half-full bottle. “I promise this is the last one.”

At the words, my back went stiff and my face shifted. I put on a look of pure hatred, and I knew she could read it by the way she winced. Are you kidding me? She was surprised at my hatred, after all she put me through? How dare she. I heavily stepped back and stomped as hard as I could without falling through the decaying floors to my room. Walking was hard when your knees felt like they would bend backward with every step. When I reached my door I shut it softly and slid down the cold paint-chipped wood. I hit the wood floor with a creak, and it finally all came out. The empty confession she spoke over and over again boiled the stopped-up river and through the dam, it finally burst through. The force pulling up the buried sediment and infesting the clear rushing river of scornfulness and hatred with my buried emotion of alleviation. I let the flood rush through my waterline and throat in weak angered cries until eventually all the murky clouded water was gone, and all that remained in the once fully built-up dam was the sediment in which lay my relief. I no longer felt guilty for it. There was no more betrayal, hurt, hatred, or anger, but instead a dry cloudy numbness that carried only contentedness. She would be gone, and as more water poured from the ocean that was my mind, I found all that flowed through was the giddiness and elatedness at the fact I would never feel like I had again. Her face that was supposed to care for me, mother me, and Jesus even just acknowledge me outside of asking about my work or my paycheck. It would be gone. I would never have to see it again. I laughed. Of course, now buried down in the sand was the part of me that called me sick, disgusting, and horrible for even daring to think of my mother's death like this. But in the sand it stayed, and though it was mudding the waters of happiness, I found I didn’t care. The water kept flowing, my tears running warm and tracing into my smile. 

I suppose in some way she did keep her promise when she said she would stop drinking. It would be hard to do that in a coffin, and I am sure as hell not burying her with any bottles. I stood up shakily, getting off my knees, and took the long walk back into the living room. Hopefully she didn’t hear my cries. When I got back, I found her passed out on the couch, green-stained shirt covered in spilled wine and the bottle now fully empty. I picked it up and tossed it, turning back to my mom. Her snores made it sound like there was gravel in her vocal cords, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was with all she stuffs down there. I sighed and picked up a poorly-knit blanket I bought at goodwill in the clearance section and lowered it gently over her sleeping form. “Merry Christmas, Jill.” and as I went to sit next to her on the floor, I ended up staying there all night. I fell asleep to the sound of her delayed breaths, and when eventually I awoke, it was no longer there.