Flash Fiction: Life of a Mother

This is a piece of Flash Fiction, inspired by the short story  'Beginning, End' by Jessica Soffer. I intend to develop it further, but it wondered what people thought of it as it is.

Life of a Mother.

You were born during the Second World War. You avoided the bombs and waited for news. Your father returned from the war. You wondered who he was. You went to school and left at fourteen. You were your sister's bridesmaid. You trained to be a secretary. You answered calls at the telephone exchange. You listened to people's conversations.

You met my dad at a dance. He tried to touch you. You slapped his face and went home. You forgave him. You got married. Dad wanted to be an accountant. You told him he'd be the best. When he failed an exam, you said he'd pass it the next time.

Then you wanted a family. You lost a baby. You had my sister. You lost another baby. And another. You cried. You moved to a new town. The doctors were helpful. You gave birth to me. You lost another baby. The doctors said it was for the best.

Your fingers started to stiffen and they wouldn't relax. You fell down. A lot. You went to the doctor. You were sent for tests. They said your muscles were slowly wasting away. Your brother said you'd end up in a wheelchair. You said you would not.

Dad drank too much and was out all the time. You told us things would be okay. The doctor said dad should stop drinking. You diluted his wine and told him he could do it. He hasn't had a drink in nearly forty years.

My sister went to college and started a new life. She told you she was moving to London. You wanted her to stay at home. I went to college and started a new life.

Your walk became a slow shuffle. You fell down more. You were scared to go out. You stayed at home. You watched the trees and the birds through the window. You watched children walk by on their way to school. You told us about what the neighbours were doing. You never complained.

We talked on the phone. It was your lifeline to the outside world. Dad woke you up to announce you were going to be a grandmother. You told everyone.

You met your first grandchild. But you could barely see her. You met your second granddaughter and sang nursery rhymes. You watched them learn to walk.

You developed a cough that went to your chest. The doctor came in. You took the medicine. It didn't help. You told dad you loved him. The whole family came around at Easter. You watched your grandchildren play.

The next morning you watched the Easter service on TV and mouthed to the hymns. You talked to my sister and reminisced about my childhood.

You fell asleep. You didn't wake up.

© 2010 Melissa Crow. All rights reserved.