There is never enough time, is there?1
Even now, sat here, just holding your hand in silence, I know that someone is going to walk through that door and destroy this one last sincere moment.2
But then, there was never enough time.3
Which is strangely ironic, considering we spent almost a year together alone when the family was split up. Almost a year and neither of us could think of one useful thing to say to each other. Not one thing. I was too young. You were too busy. I was running away, hiding from my own sins, you were dealing with your own and other people’s.4
Yet even back then, I remember on those times I did come home, those quiet evenings where you had once again fallen asleep on the settee. Eyes red from crying. Papers strewn around the floor. The standard half-empty bottle of whiskey. Waking you up, encouraging you to go to bed. That lazy, half-smile, filled with amusement.5
Goddamit. Why couldn’t you have just stopped back then? Why could you never find your happiness? Why couldn’t I have said something?
I suppose it’s typical really. The forbidden line. The role of mother and son is filled with secrets and lies. Full of jibes and banter, but the important things remain buried. Never said. Unspoken.6
I remember my frustration on showing you my exam results from school only to meet my pride with a curt ‘You could have done better’. I remember late nights of you reading us ‘The Hobbit’ while we were little children. I remember you dragging me into a shop on my birthday to ask a surprised assistant what would be the best thing to buy a sixteen year old besides condoms. I remember your shock when you heard me swear for the first time.7
Now all that’s left is me holding your hand. And again I struggle for something to say. 8
There is so many things I want to say. So many things, but I just don’t know how to say them. 9
I want to tell you that I wish it hadn’t come to this. I want to tell you that my life is well. I want to tell you that you will not be forgotten.
It all seems pointless. Worthless.10
Why is there never enough time?11
Your erratic breathing, the only sound in the room, takes on the impression of a ticking clock. Counting down.12
Eventually we did learn to talk to each other, through crisis and trauma. Through hugs and tears. But living far apart, these were few and fleeting. Savoured all too briefly. Those few moments where we remind ourselves that we are related, that we do have connections, that we actually mean something to each other deep down inside. Arguments and lectures. The sharing of secrets. The picking up of the pieces. Trying in such brief moments to really try and understand each other within late drunken nights.13
Sitting here now. Feeling like I should be crying, but unable to bring forth the tears. Maybe I’m still in shock. Maybe my brain isn’t really grasping how important this one moment is.14
Part of me is angry. Not for the current situation, but the fact that thanks to life’s cruel game, my last memory of you talking and standing will be you walking out, half way through my wedding. My wedding!
I understand your reasons, have defended them continuously to all the naysayers and critics. You have your reasons and your right. And probably better that than had you stayed for the reception. But why did that have to be the last memory? Why?15
Part of me is self-loathing. A distinct feeling of the part I may have played in your swift deterioration. Were too many secrets told? Too many drunken nights? Was it all too much to bear? I am told later that we can never see all the sides in any situation, so I should learn not to hold myself solely accountable for anything. That feels too easily like a cop-out. Just because there were lots of us shooting at her, does that make any of us less the murderer? Is it okay to feel that I wasn’t the only person who had made her life hell? Wasn’t the only one to lead her to this?16
I look at you now and try to connect the withered form, huddled in sheets on the hospital bed and the woman too proud to stand next to her ex-husband in a church. I try and connect this wretched sight with any of my memories of you. I feel distanced from the situation in that I can’t do it. Can’t picture you without thinking of your life and your warmth. This creature before me is none of those things.17
This is a husk. I have to tell myself forcefully, this is what’s left. Hard to believe you were only in your mid-forties.18
I don’t want you to become just another statistic. Just another person who died from cancer due to too much drinking. You can’t be a statistic. You were always too independent for that. Too stubborn. Too alive.19
Don’t do this.20
Don’t be this way.21
Don’t die.22
I’m not done with you yet. I still need your help. It’s all too much. I still need your voice.23
Be with me. Hold me steady.24
Please.25
But there’s nothing. Just your breathing. Just you, curled up in your final bed. Eyes tightly closed. The occasional tremor. Nothing more to be said. Nothing more to say.26
So, with eyes closed and pounding heart, I do the only thing I can think of. 27
Softly, gently. With all the time in the world.2829
I sing you to sleep.30
A contest entry
- December New Member Contest by SW Greeters.
450 points, ended January 5, 12 entries
Honorable mention
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Have you ever lost a loved one? by trekkergirl.
175 points, ended January 7, 29 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Best Only by DeathByChocolate.
186 points, ended July 10, 46 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 15 of 15
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Absolutely... beautiful. Stunning. A work of art.
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Aw . . .
I'm choked.
This is so sweet. You're such an emotional kind of writer, you can feel the emotion.
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So True
You know, I remember feeling just like that when I said goodbye to mum, although I didn't sing to her.
Really emotional.beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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Wow one awesome write!
Wow this is soooo emotional. I know exactly what you mean. My mom didn't die thankfully but not for want of trying. She made it through her crisis... causing me to have one myself. But then now she is better. I can soooo relate to this. Wow!
I really do like this one. thanks for sharing this wonderful tale of a emotinal ride.
thanks for entering it into this contest.
I am sorry for your grief. I have been there and back. So I can relate.
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Thank you
Thank you for the comment and the award. I'm glad that you Mum (and yourself) made it through her crisis. I had been meaning to write something about my Mum's final days for sometime and have really appreciated the response I have got.
The song, by the way, for those interested was 'Against All Odds (Take A Look At Me Now)' by Phil Collins. It was the only thing I could think of to say or sing at the time.
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wow, brought me to tears!
and i'm not very emotional! i loved this. you made this piece long enough to explain the whole story, yet kept it short enough that i didn't get bored. that, my friend, takes skill. =)
this work made me nearly cry, seriously. i could feel the son's sadness as he watched his mother's demise. you did a great job with invoking empathy from the reader.
the beginning was an attention grabber, the body told you everything you needed to know, and the end was spectacular! i can't wait to read more of your work.
beginning: 5, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 5, dialog: 5, characters: 5.
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I agree with Andy. This is a sad and moving tale. I loved how he sang to his mother. It was touching and made me think about their life. Good luck in the contest.
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Para 9 "There is so many things I want to say." should be "are", but that apart, a very thoughtful and thought-provoking piece. The only way this could be told is as a retrospective, which all too often turns into maudlin sentimentality. Thank God you put in enough hard realism to rescue it from that dreadful fate.
Sometimes, less is more, and this is a good example. You hit all the right notes here, pulled all the right strings. Well done. I don't know if it's autobiographical; most people put something of themselves and bits they borrow from others in this kind of piece, but it certainly draws out some sympathy and, more importantly, a fair amount of empathy. Very well done. -
What a piece. I can't really say anything. The way you put this was incredibly surreal. I appreciate the good read.
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Very Emotional
This is a very emotional story. It is also sad and moving. Singing his mother to sleep is a powerful ending.
Thanks for entering the New Members contest. Welcome to Storywrite
. Let us know if we may be of assistance.
Andy, greeter
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Interesting, I love the point of view you have used, not common but definatly poinant. I can't really relate in the lost parents sense, but I lost my best friend two and a half years ago, so I can relate to the despiration in the last few moments. Nicely done.
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Hello Mark, welcome to Storywrite and thank you for sharing this very emotional piece with us.
You draw easy to see characters and describe their environment well
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Most readers will empathize with your hero. Although, it is sad that most of his memories of his mother, instead of being joyful, tend to be reflective of her weaknesses.
Now that he is forced to witness her death, the barriers between them still won’t come down.
You do require a bit of editing. Don’t we all
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Good luck in the contest.
Geri
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So poignant. I can relate so much to this. My mother died in the same way and I was at the hospital with her, too.
And like you say so many things left unsaid.
Thanks for sharing
Best Wishes -
That was so sad.
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Very sad. And i never really thought about the statistic part when someone i know has died. I was with a cousin in his hospital room, as he died of an OD. It's terrible and you brought forth the heavy emotion that comes with it.
great thought in writing as well.
Welcome to the site!
Best of luck to you
Rian (greeter)
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