I Am So Sorry

When she beat me this morning, I was prepared. I felt no pain. Well...not physically.

I dressed myself in somber fashion, allowing the red leotard to slip onto my form easily. Ballet...oh, Mother, how you live through me. 

I am 12. Twelve. Yes, I compare the numbers and the letters. I like to play with puppies. Cats are fun, too. I once had two hermit crabs. 2. They weren't hard for you to kill. I watched you. You told me the next morning that hermit crabs don't live long. Usually, you see me. I guess I am getting better at hiding. 

Do you remember that time? When you asked me to clear a path in my room, from the doorway to the closet? I tried. I tried, so hard. I felt no pain. Well...not physically.

You told me your dad broke your arm. You were drinking something, and you told me it was Christmas. I felt no pain. Not for you.

I like to dance. I am young, but I am able. I am strong. I am short. But I will conquer mountains. I feel tremendous pain. Never for you. 

One step, two step, which position? Dance of the swan, or moonlight sonata? Miss Gwen is so nice. She is lovely, and she likes to dance. Why did she hire Miss Sam? She talks about things I dislike. She can't always afford food. Do you remember the time you ate in front of me, laughing and saying I did not deserve dinner?

I am 12. Twelve. Yes, I enjoy the comparison. I am learning, I am new. I can dance a jig. I can Madison. How 'bout you?

-

My daughter drops something. It's loud, and I jump. I look at her, startled. We look around, then share a laugh. You always amaze me, pretty girl. 

I am 29. Twenty-nine. Louisiana was a long time ago. The old red leotard, God, it never fit. You recorded me, I said I was hungry. I laughed. I felt pain. Well...

That leotard, man, where is it? I remember my arms up, and Miss Gwen could not push them down. She said I had great form. 

She dances. I laugh, I instruct. She is nearly 3. Three. You have seen her twice in her life. The baby? You will never meet. 

I enter the bathroom. I look at me. We lock eyes, and...I see you. And I want to love who I see. 

All the years. All the pain. All the insults. All the rejection. I look at my reflection. I am so sorry. 

Somewhere, I hope you're happy. Some place, I hope you are laughing. But if we are done pretending, I hope you are in pain. Well...

-

You lower into the ground. I zone out, focus steeping into the coffin you rest in. I am forty-two. 42. My husband wraps an arm around my shoulder. Concern. Empathy. I look at him. I search. Both parents have died, and he would know how to feel. But the pain? I should feel it, right? Well...at least, physically. Melanie yawns. I feel the flare of anger, and I want to tell her to show respect. But, then again, she doesn't know you. You only met her twice, and the baby? She never put your face to your name.

He told me I would regret the time that you were alive. That I would wish I could have a moment to tell you how I feel. In my head, I meet with you. I step up to your form, and you're laughing. Loud, overcompensating. Why did you never break the cycle? Why did I learn to be a mother through what you taught me not to do?

I'm nervous. I don't want to talk to you. I don't like your face, despite being told how pretty it is. I don't like your laugh, I don't like your hair, I dislike your excuses. I am sorry your mother was an alcoholic. I'm sorry that you did everything that you did without ingesting a drop at the time. I'm forty-two. 42. I like the comparison between numbers and letters. 

I look at that nasty smile of yours. I smile back. My heart beats a tattoo into my rib cage, but I have to pretend. I look at your silhouette, in that white dress, with those built-up specks of deodorant. I remember thinking they looked like grapes. That was before you broke my brother's arm.

"Goodbye."

It's rigid. It feels fake. You look at me, and you don't recognize me. Maybe it's because I had forgotten what YOU look like. You nod at me. I nod back. The jitters fade, and I look down at Autumn. She glances up at me, cautious, and just like my husband did, gives my arm a squeeze. "I love you, mommy."

-

Today, I'm 12. Twelve. I like kittens, and I really enjoy gumbo. This black eye won't be here forever. And once I finish my supper, I will  practice my routine, and I will excel. I will place the tap shoes on my feet, and I will run outside and smell the magnolias. And I will come in when you call. I'll feel some pain. But only physically.

I will tell you that I am so sorry about your dad. I will stand, rigid, as you give me a hug and say that you're sorry. Why in the hell do you always cry more than I do? Can't you suck it up? Can you just say nothing?

-

Today, I am 16. Sixteen. I am thankful for arm-warmers. You probably will never know I cut every time you hit me. I think about what love is, and I imagine how I will raise any kids I may be lucky enough to have. I slink to the bathroom, and I place toilet paper on my wrist. I don't feel pain anymore. At least, not physically. 

I look into the mirror, and I meet my eyes. I feel something. Perhaps it's admission of the fact I have been faking it for years. And I look into those deep, broken orbs. And I whisper the words you could never say meaningfully, I am so sorry.