Momma’s Red Pen
Momma was writing with red ink today, so my brother and I dare not leave our room. Most mornings, for as long as I can remember, momma has attempted to lose herself in that journal. Described as an author of introductions with no conclusions, yet she was often good at the climax. Writing about a wife who lost her husband to the Great War, a daughter who was sexually abused by her stepfather, a girl who was beginning to grow into herself. Later in life through intimate sessions with my therapist, I realized momma used literary devices to confront her demons. Looking into that journal I wonder what version of herself she saw. Fact or fiction it seemed like her wordy tales were an endless loop. I picture her writing in circles and letting words overlap each other. My brother would sometimes ask if he could read her stories, I was never so brave. None the less, she would always tell him he could read them when she was finished. I don’t think that wife ever got over her husband, or that daughter ever healed from her abuse; maybe that girl never grew into herself, because my brother never got to read a single one of those stories. I don’t think she had the words for tales in her life still being written.