Every time we post a story, we try to have a cute, clever, twisted intro, something to ingratiate, keep light, make it seem like fun, pique. Plus, y’know, the Twilight Zone.
This story doesn’t need an introduction, other than: as powerful as words get.
This story doesn’t need an introduction, other than: as powerful as words get.
Tell Her by Marietta Miles
Tell my mother I am safe. Tell her things are not how I
wanted but as they simply turned out to be.
Let her know, at the end, I felt the press of her strong arms
around me. Like when I was just a kid. She would say her goodbyes in front of
the school or at the door to the bright yellow bus. And she would break a sad
smile when I squirmed away because I was so ready to grow up. Tell her I
remembered.
Tell her it was the warm, sugary smell of her hair and the familiar
curve of her neck that I imagined while lying in the sticky dark—hollowed-out,
afraid, alone. Tell her the memory of her ferocious hugs and even her
frustrated scolds kept a tiny hole of hope open inside of me until the very end.
Tell her that I dreamed of coming home to her.
And though there is nothing left for my mother to bury or
inter, tell her, in some way, I will always be with her. Help her. End all her
worry. Because what’s done is done and nothing worse can come. Tell her I miss
her and I am so sorry I couldn’t stay. Tell her I love her and I will always be
her baby.