White washed.

Theme Week 7: Character

Listening to the tick-tick of the naked white clock behind me on the wall, I contemplate the look resting in my mother's eyes. I've never known her all my life, despite every moment I have spent and lived with her. She is still a stranger to me.

A lot of things in her past have caused my mother to become a brick wall. She appears to have no weakness and no depth sometimes, yet once in a while I can see a stitch or two come loose. I remember one day, watching her tumble to the floor in tears. My dog Malcolm, had shit all over the floor, and she had woken up in a good mood (something she rarely ever does), to have it ruined. She hated my dog. She loves him now, but she hated him then.

Her eyes are a hazel-green, a lot like mine, except they don't change colour as much as mine do. I don't really know her natural hair color, she's always bleached it nearly white. I think it's the same ash as mine. I don't look much like her, her nose and mouth are different, I have much longer eyelashes, but we are still similar. At one point I thought we had nothing in common. A lot of people tell me that she looks like Bette Midler. I think she's much prettier than Bette. Lord knows she can't sing.

I remember getting caught shoplifting when I was 11. I was forced into it really, you know the peer-pressure deal, and I remember the guilt I felt as I hid underneath the table in tears, while the cops decided what they wanted to do with me.

She was silent on the ride home. For once I think she actually understood something. She seemed unusually lenient with me, I was never punished. She said to me that I didn't need it, I was already punishing myself enough. She was right, the tears were not in fear, but for guilt. I felt I had disappointed her that day, disappointed myself. She didn't punish me much for anything, but then again I didn't do much that required penalty.

Her hair is very curly. Not tight curls but medium, tangled curls, they can't decide if they want to go one way or the other. My hair is waved. She never liked her nose touched. Much like her father's, it's long. It's strong, with a little round knob on the end, that turns up slightly. She is an attractive woman, though her lips are thin.

Sometimes when she smiles they don't look thin, but they are. Her eyes crinkle up now, they didn't do it so much before. American Spirit cigarettes, that's what she smokes. At 38, she is starting to look beyond her years. She always says she's going to quit. To her, quitting has always been one ciggie every three or four days. I used to laugh and tell her she's going to die. I get scared thinking that maybe she will.

She gets up early every morning, despite the late shifts at the bar. She tromps down the stairs, hair standing on end, eyes black and blue from sleep, or lack thereof, and opens the cabinet for her beans.

Starbucks, espresso or French roast always. She'd scoop the beans into the grinder with a tinkle of plastic, and I'd wake up to hear it chop away at the little black morsels. As it brewed, the whole house would fill with the skunky aroma of the black stuff, and I would smile as it tingled my nose hairs. She drinks almost a pot a day of the stuff. I don't know how she can afford that much caffeine in her bloodstream.

It's her lifeline, Starbucks. Now I'm addicted to it.

The clock still ticks behind me, and I smile at her, as I cradle a hot mug in my hands. We sipped it together like sisters, and all of a sudden I seem to know her, though I know nothing about her at all.

posted by Kasey @ 3:33 PM