My Mother Drowned Me on a Tuesday
When I think of my youth, I think of the times my mother attempted to drown me.
This was not a solitary experience. It happened once a week.
It’s not that she didn’t want me. That wasn’t the case.
My mother drowned me to protect me from the destruction of the regular earthquakes that broke our home, smashing it to pieces.
She whispered to me, “Just a minute, you won’t feel pain, you won’t feel sadness. It will all be over soon.”
My porcelain skin held under the tub for minutes as the steps of the quake neared. Her colossal hands, still only a child’s, fumbled to keep my glass eyes shut.
Her own father thundered up steps, bursting into her room. His builder’s boots created the ripples that rocked my house to the floor. She cast me to the floor with shrill shrieks. I lay there and listened to him tell her, “Just a minute, you won’t feel pain, you won’t feel sadness. It will all be over soon.”
Every Tuesday she looked to me, wishing that she lived in my home.