Eileen Cruz Coleman
My Sadness Is My Own
Tears bloated her eyes. Her hand wrapped tight around mine, her body lay on her bed like that of an aged sea lion banished from the herd. She'd never again take a breath without feeling pain. And I'd stay until her lungs failed. I'd stay because she had once loved me.
She carried me in her arms all the way to the hospital when I was eleven years old after having found me naked on the side of the road.
"Daughter," she said, her eyes draining. "Please forgive me," she took in air, "for all the things I did that caused you sadness."
She cried herself to sleep when the doctors told her the chances of me ever bringing a healthy baby into the world were nonexistent.
I caressed the liver spots on her arm and said,
"My sadness is my own. You have nothing for which to ask forgiveness."
She tried to lift her head off the pillow.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you told me he had kissed you. My God, you were only five years old."
She pleaded with God to erase my memory and return my innocence.
"I love you," I said as I continued to caress her arm. "My sadness is my own." I pulled strands of hair to my face.
"I didn't want to believe you. He was a man of the church. He had a family. My God, you were only ten years old." Her chest rose and she exhaled a moan. Sweat beads crept onto her neck.
She removed every sharp object from our house when she found a pair of scissors hidden underneath my pillow.
"Daughter," she said. "I'm sorry I told you to accept your husband for who he was. A hardworking man who also cheated and insulted you in public."
She didn't make me feel ashamed when, at twelve years old, she found me making out with a boy on her bed.
"My sadness is my own." I pulled more strands of hair to my face.
"Daughter," she said. "I'm sorry I only called you when I needed money or a favor."
She cradled me and fed me chicken broth when, at thirteen years old, I downed a quarter of a bottle of whiskey which she had accidentally left by her bedside.
"My sadness is my own."
"Daughter," she said. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to see you graduate from college."
She stood in front of the entire congregation and defended me when a group of church members threatened to ex-communicate me.
"Daughter," she said. "I'm sorry I wasn't at your side when you gave birth to your son. I should have held your hand and comforted you as the doctors took your premature sleeping baby away."
She bathed me with expensive soaps so I could see I was clean enough and didn't have to take five baths a day.
"My sadness is my own."
"Daughter," she said. "I'm sorry I hit you when you told me you hated me."
She told me I was beautiful and wiped my tears when at fifteen years old, I ran away from home with a thirty-year old man who used me for himself and then left me to walk home by myself in the middle of the night.
"My sadness is my own."
"Daughter," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't come visit you when your friends called to tell me you were hurting yourself."
She listened to me, without judgment, when at eighteen years old, I confessed I had visited a clinic and asked a doctor to remove a being from my body.
"My sadness is my own."
"Daughter," she said and coughed blood into her pillow. "I'm sorry--"
"Mom," I said, my voice stern. "Please stop talking. I can't listen to you. You have nothing for which to ask forgiveness." I forced saliva down my throat. "My sadness is my own."
She squeezed my hand. "I know and for that I must also ask you for forgiveness. I should have never let you carry such sadness alone." She coughed. "After it happened, I wanted to take you far away to a place where no one would ever hurt you again. A place where flowers bloomed year-round and the ocean water was clear and warm. But instead I consumed myself with sadness and guilt."
I finally freed my tears. My face remained covered with thin strands of hair.
"Daughter," she said. "You're not what happened to you. Pull back your hair, let the world see your face, and walk on." She coughed again. "Your sadness is not your own."
I let go of her hand; she inhaled for the last time. I closed her eyes, and sobbed on her chest.
My mother was gone.
I don't know how long I let my pain fall on her body. But when I stood, I knew why she eventually abandoned me. I pulled back my hair and said,
"I forgive you. You're not what happened to me. And yes, I will walk on."
©2006 by Eileen Cruz Coleman
