For several months after her mother gave birth she laid in agony, only crying, weeping, and feeding her precious daughter. Her husband forced water and oatmeal down her throat every morning while she stared blankly out the window and let weak tears dribble from her eyes. At twelve he'd bring her tomato soup and canned peaches, she'd silently ache for solace beyond the darling babe upon her chest. Around seven He'd bring up mashed potatoes and she would turn her face away from him with embarrassment. Taro thought quite possibly the reason for her excruciating numbness was the sorrow she endured, consumed, absorbed while she laid on the chest of her mother who sat on her bed of depression for months. If that was true she wondered if she was numb for good? Her mother still cried but not the same as before and never in front of her daughter. Taro never cried instead she stared out windows with no intention of leaving the vast tabula rasa she began her life in.
YOU ARE READING
Hysterical letters to my sanity
Poetrya collection of poems inspired by stories I've read, people I've met and paths I've crossed, read and enjoy yourself:)
