Plant New Seeds | H.S.| AU

Chapter Twenty-Four - The M Word

N I A

It was the Pile. In Daylight.

Only this time, it—she—resembled my Mommy.

Slightly frayed around the edges like a photo of a treasured memory, the one scuff on a pair of shiny shoes, and a thrifted vintage shirt of your favorite band. All damaged but the beauty of what it once was still prevailed with ease.

Her hair was no longer a ratted up hornet's nest, untangled and unbondaged from its knots. Her beautiful curls weren't as defined as they once were but—they were there. I could see them. Though dry and slightly unkempt, her curls were scraping the surface of vitality in all its dark brown glory.

The brown of her skin was revitalized, the crisp butterscotch of her complexion flushed from the autumn wind outside.

Despite also being dry like her hair, the cracks that were once there seemed to be patching themselves up little by little. There was a subtle promise of a glow to come.

She stood taller, in comparison to the last time when her bones looked like they were rickety, bound to collapse if she used even an ounce of her strength. Still petite and delicate looking, though, unlike how my curvy and able-bodied Mommy was while growing up.

But healthier. Much healthier.

Her eyes—those beautiful hazel eyes I envied her for, the ones I wished I had inherited from her gene pool instead of my sperm donor's—were awake. The smudged windows to her soul were bathed in Windex, clear as day and freed of its fog.

And the longer I stared, the memory of our last encounter slowly eased its way out of the throw-aways; she was wearing the red sweater hand-me-up sweater I gave to her instead of Goodwill before I let her go.

I held my breath, waiting for the moment to leave excruciating carpet burns under me once the rug was pulled out.  There was no possible way that this pile, my Pile, my mother was standing inches away from me, looking the best she has in years—at least the ones she popped into from time to time.

For the first time in what was forever, I recognized her. No longer an unattainable figment I managed to convince myself she was all those years I spent being raised by strangers; she was standing right here.

Is it really her? I thought to myself, the Gods are fuckin' wit' me again, huh?

But once I watched her shift nervously on her feet, fidgeting with the worn out buttons of the linty sweater I only kept for so long because it reminded me of her, and once she spoke—I knew it was her.

"I'm lookin' for my daughter," The Pile answered anxiously, her oddly blended caribbean-Brooklyn accent as clear as day. "I knew she live pon de way so I-I-I came here last time, she was here...I must got de wrong place."

Homie turned around to face me, the revelation of who the hell he was staring at blanching his face completely. A question lingered in his eyes, an obvious one.

He wouldn't have cared if Jesus fucking Christ himself was at the door—Harry's number one priority was always assuring I was comfortable, no matter how much it fuckin' irritated me.

I assured him it was alright to let her in with a brief nod and walked even closer to the door, this time in complete view of The Pile. Light danced around, back and forth, between the green and brown of her eyes once she caught sight of me.

"Ma," was all I said.

"Nee-Nee," was all she said.

Poor, confused, Harry stood in the middle of it all as he stared at us—back and forth, up and down, round and round in sheer astonishment. I was just as confused as he was.