entropy

she was my mother

Red.

In every birth that's the first color I recognize. Not a white light or an empty darkness. I see flowing colors of red.

Her lips, her hair, her fingernails, and her favorite dresses. Even the surroundings is brimming with colors of red. The couch and curtains, the linings of the cabinets and walls, the flowers in the table vase, they are all shades of red, be it vibrant or dull. Everything is almost red, but not our carpets. They are a snowy white color and have a fur texture. They easily get stained. I once remember her brushing hard on these cloths to remove the stains, saying it's necessary to hide the flaw.

It's from her that I got my features. My hair, face shape, nose, lips, and even the tone of our skin are similar, but the color of our eyes couldn't be more different. 

Separated by a glass wall, I look at her, however I knew she sees me not. Her figure so thin, that she must have lost pounds of weight. Her soft lips now chapped and dry. Her eyes deep and dark. And her face appearing dry and skeletal.

"Hi mom." I try talking to her through the small microphone I nervously held, but once more disappointment sinks to my gut, for like the past several lifetimes she gives me not one response.

The first me, whom I refer to as the original, cried. The original cried for the pitiful state of her beloved mother. Then the second was angry, yelling at her, cursing her, begging for her to speak, to have some reaction towards her presence. Over and over, I did various ways to attract her attention. Now, I have lost count of the number of me's. Am I still the 8th? 13th? Or have I reached the 20th? Too many memories are jumbled together, sometimes even my dreams are a lifetime themselves. Yet no matter how I twist each life, I don't get any closer to this stranger.