Like mother like daughter.

Now I think about those days where I used to watch her, sitting at the kitchen table with Erik Satie’s “Trois Gymnopedies” playing through an old cassette tape. Her gaze so glassy-eyed and her expression just completely blank. It was as if she’d been so overwhelmed with grief and sadness that it would deteriorate and she’d be left with nothing but numbness. This haunting blank feeling overtook her, as she sat, and I’d say something to her, and she wouldn’t even move. You’d think she was living in another world for these moments. The days where this happened of course began to become a rarity, as time passed and his absence was not so unbearably evident.

“it’s okay, Mumma.” I’d say, and not ever really understand what it was that pained her so or if it was going to be okay. I watched her rise up from that state, but I did come to see it more than a few times during my years under her roof. And I didn’t understand at all, as I’d been pre-occupied with the sadness that encompasses a child, such as losing an article of clothing or missing my favourite television show. So as I now sit, on my bed surrounded by empty glasses and in clusters of cigarette ash, I can say I know what it feels like. To be drained of energy, of life. To feel completely and utterly exhausted to the point I cannot cry, or shout, or kick or do anything. I just lie here, and think about how I wish to be wrapped in my Father’s arms again but I can’t. Completely consumed. Staring at my ceiling and watching the light fade away around me until it becomes night, that crisp and sharp night-air, so pure and fresh just flowing in from the outside. Listening to Erik Satie. Subdued.