By Bright Aboagye
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complicated mother-child relationships
The first thing she said was, I used to dance before the babies came. I watched her eyes, old film reels turning black and white, with a soundtrack of pain. So, I held her flippantly, like a cup half full of rain and regret. I learned to read her sighs like stories, traced laughter lines that never quite healed, and became both son & healer, repairing the sides of her memory with bedtime songs and morning tea. On the days she sat too long at the window, I remembered my childhood hunger for safety that didn’t smell like tiredness. Her love sometimes felt identical to leftovers on a cold plate. But then she’d pull me into her arms, call me sunshine and I’d see the girl she used to be, spinning in a yellow dress, barefoot below a sky that believed in her. For years, I swept her sadness into corners; I offered smiles that were flowers in a vase, hoping to brighten the imprecise rooms inside her. Some obscurities, I learned, prefer the discreet. I stayed sitting beside her in the dark and held her hand when the memories knocked louder than the world outside.
Bright Aboagye counts Aja Monet and Akwaeke Emezi amongst his influences. He dreams of becoming a surrealist blues poet, writer, and restaurant entrepreneur. Bright hopes that his work inspires and gives hope to all who engage with it. He is currently looking for a publisher for his nonfiction memoir-in-essays manuscript tentatively titled, I want to cry blood but my veins refuse, which approaches his search for a purpose. He can be found: Twitter: Bright_Abo9gye, Blog: http://tayyashh1912.blogspot.com/ and LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/bright-aboagye-1990552b7
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