butterfly

My mother loves to call me a social butterfly.
She likes to brag about my ‘charisma’ and ‘charm’.
“My daughter,” she boasts.
“She can talk to anyone. It’s really a gift,” she laughs.
“I don’t know where she gets it from.”
“Probably her dad.”

I wonder if my mother ever thinks about why I am,
the way that I am.

I wonder if it’s easier to say that I take after my dad
and cling onto what is familiar,
than to admit that the baby girl she gave birth to
has become a complete stranger in her absence.

I wonder if she feels the distance between us
and the tension in the air
every time we are in the same room —
how my heart races,
chest tightens,
and head pounds.

“Mother,” I want to tell her.
“I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“I can talk to everyone but you.”

But I don’t.

Instead I shrug,
give a smile and say,
“I’m not like dad.”

My mother throws her head back and laughs again.
“All kids take after their parents, whether they want to or not.”

Her laugh unsettles me,
as her words cut me like daggers,
reopening old wounds
and cutting deeper into the ones
that have only just begun to heal.

I realize that my mother believes all is forgiven and done.
That my ‘gift’ of words and charm have mended all wounds.
That everything is okay because I survived.

I take in a breath as my blood curls
and before I know it,
all the air slowly begins to seep out of the room.

I want to shout,
“So what then, mother, does a child take from a lifetime of absence?!”

My mother looks back at me,
waiting for a response.

I take another gulp of air as I try to remember how to breathe.

I wonder if she ever hears the sharp intakes I draw whenever she is near.
I wonder if she notices all the pauses and breaks
in our infrequent conversations.
Or if she ever sees the dissociated look in my eyes
as I desperately search for enough words
to fill a void left by two decades
of absence & silence.

“Guess dad’s a butterfly too then,” I quip.

My mother laughs again & shakes her head,
“He’s not pretty enough for that.”

Butterfly.

I wonder if my mother realizes
that my wings had been clipped,
long before I even knew I could fly.