My mother was a fighter. It was all she ever did. She spent three days in labour fighting to give birth to me and spent the rest of her life fighting for mine. All Mother ever did was struggle. I don’t remember a moment when her hands were not full. She was either cradling my fragile heart or juggling three jobs whilst trying to help me with homework and pay rent. Her shoulders were always hunched—weighed down by the weight of keeping me alive. Then, she died.
It was oddly comforting seeing my mother free from the austerity of one plane, so, I did not weep. I stood by the door of the dark room and said nothing. The curtains were drawn, the room stuffy, and the air peacefully agitated as though it were doused in expletives and hung on a clothesline to dry. When I took a breath, my nose scrunched reflexively and my brows dipped into a frown, the stench of sickness was putrid.
It was odd how one sister—sickness—smelt like oblivion yet she was dressed in pale clothing and not entirely an unwelcome guest, but the other sister, the one who put flowers in her hair and smelt like a garden, was adorned in black and never let into a home, not willingly.
Death bowed at my mother’s bed, considered the pills she had taken to end her misery and kissed her pale hands before placing a cloth over Mother and carrying her in her arms. She was gentle with my mother, held her body like it was still breathing and put her soul in a bottle hung about her neck. She touched the bottle with one dark finger and smiled sadly before leaving the room by sinking into the Earth.
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Read – Our Founding Mothers – A Flash Fiction by Kristen Harding, South Africa
Raised by an introverted, softhearted father and an outgoing mother, Isirima Grace is a strange blend of both her parents. She grew up in a small town in Nigeria and has been writing stories since she was a child. She has not learnt all there is to know about herself, but all she knows, she has discovered in her writings.
