When My Mother Whispers

I hate it when my mother whispers.

She never shares secrets about fairies or magic. Whispers from my mother’s mouth almost exclusively mean bad news.It always starts with a “come hither” motion, from her eyes or her hand. She pulls me down to a seat at the table, she draws me in with her eyes, and delivers a swift one-two punch on the wings of whisper.

“The cancer has spread.”

“Millie died.”

“We’re not going back.”

“Promise me you’ll kill me.”

In the rare event that my mother whispers, all around us is still. Inside, my blood roars through my body as I try to brace myself, feeling like a damn on the brink of breaking. In those moments, I beg for her bark. I implore her to keep the decibels of her voice high above my head. I prefer for her to spit things that she doesn’t mean, and for them to roll over me like thunder. 
But when we sit in the stillness of a mother-daughter moment, and I wait for the venom on the other side of her words, I know that, despite what anyone says, a whisper can be just as loud and alarming as a roar.

 

 

This post is part of Write Your Ass Off April a Twenties Unscripted 10-Day Writing Challenge. Today, I finished! Day 10: Roar.  Catch up with my other #WYAOApril posts: Day 1. Surrender. Day 2. Ascend.  Day 3. Heal. Day 4. SpillDay 5. Ignite. Day 6. Love. Day 7. Complicate. Day 8. Demolish. Day 9. Confess

 

Roar

xo,  Roco

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