Conversations I’ll Never Have Out Loud With My Mother

You’re probably standing over a tope, making our next meal as I write this. One hand on your hip, the other busy stirring away, humming hymns like you always do, Mother.
If so, the kitchen is filled with a heavenly aroma that you can smell from about a mile away. It’s the same aroma that draws my greedy little friends home to savour your excellent cooking.

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I think you’re the best chef in the world. I hope you know that because I will never say it out loud.

Remember when we were little and helped you bake? You’d put on your apron well before dawn. Although nothing was spoken, every guiding touch; every perfectly cut cookie was like a silent, “I love you”.
Sometimes I think all the effort and love you put into your creations was your way of showing how much you cared. You don’t bake as often as you did then, but I do. And I hope you know it’s because of you.
Because I will never tell you. 

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Remember how after getting mad at us you would sneak into our beds at night, saying sorry? Or how we’d play games till the thunderstorm passed by?
I remember. I remember because it’s the last memory I have of you that makes me smile.
Things changed for us, and now your name is a bittersweet taste in my mouth.

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Remember that time I wrote a note and tried to run away and you found it and you laughed?
I have never stopped wanting to run away.
I am unhappy and afraid. But I cannot tell you that. Because we don’t talk like others do.
How can we? We are not friends.

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You know as little of my personal life as I’ll allow you. You know nothing of my troubles and little of my joys. You know not of my first kiss or my first heartbreak or how lonely I’ve always felt.
Everything that matters, I keep hidden.

I wish I could tell you what it’s like to be different, to hide behind books instead of going out on Friday nights, to be the last one chosen, about wanting to die. I wish I could come to you when life gets too hard and I find myself lost.
I wish I could, and I wish you’d understand.
But I will never share these secrets with you. I never let my tears fall when you’re around.

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You see, I tried to open up to you once. When I talked to you about depression’s cold embrace, you asked me to be more “normal”. You said it was all in my head.
That was the last conversation we had.

So I wish I could tell you I love you before I go, but I will not.
Because you’d probably never believe me. Because it’s probably all in my head.

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Posted by

Amanda Francesca Mendonça

After spending pretty much all of my teen years waiting for a Hogwarts letter that never came, I gave up and settled for being a wizard with words instead. A hopeless romantic, when I’m not penning down short stories, I’m busy imagining my own happily ever after.

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