By Jane Carty
Edited by Elim Chan and Alloe Mak

With eyes closed, I hear Lady Winter’s breath tickling the trembling leaves of the red maple waiting outside my bedroom window, feeling its echo drifting through the open screen. She runs her hands over my cheeks, pushing my hair back, and letting all the thoughts slide down my body and slip away to hide under my bed. Finally opening my eyes, my childhood room stares back at me; my grey walls and their blemishes built over the stay of my life. A worn grey carpet meets my feet as I plant them off the edge of my bed, the fibers smoothed down from use. A bright orange painting of a cat arching on the seat of a chair, a gift from my nanny, stares back at me; the cat seems to smile and stretch as I make eye contact with it. The curtains my mom made are dancing gently with the wind, letting the light stream through its gaps. The light traces my path from bed to door, gently painting the way.

A lingering hymn of seasons
Long gone, but not yet past
Whispering in the corridors of memory,
A shadow outlined through the glass.

An orchestra of skinned knees and hopes ignited,
A memory half-remembered, half-dreamed,
Dancing still,
Though the voices have long since quieted.

I stop at the door frame, hearing my mom move around in her room down the hall. The soft creak of the wood floors under her weight gets louder then quieter then louder again as she walks. Through closed doors, I see the lines of thought drawing themselves deeper, collecting the dust of her worries.

Sitting with my back pressed against the cold drywall, I hear her agile steps carefully choosing planks with support, sure to make the least amount of sound. A silent household; even the smells and colours seem dimmed these days. I follow the sound of running water to the bathroom where she leans over the counter to touch her face. I perch on the bathtub rim, watching the curve in her back correct itself as she pulls her face into a smile, looking at me through the mirror. We still do not speak, we whisper. She tells me about her day as she pulls back her hair; those strands that have always been compared to mine. She runs her hands through her light-brown, shoulder-length hair, pulling it into a ponytail nearly as tight as her smile. Even less than half her age, I notice the relief that momentarily fills her face at the feeling of fingers in her hair, even if it is just for a second. The moist heat that flitters across the glass and the smell of vanilla soap are familiar—a reminder of weekday mornings when I sit and watch her get ready for work. Her neat ponytail is one that she wears every day, and I feel lucky to be one of few that gets to see her with her hair down. She is beautiful, my mother.

I watch her fingers glide over the story on her face, on her weary body, on her busy hands. She measures the weight of the tale she will tell those at work. Watching her, I hear her heart beating through the deep purple blouse she wears. One beat for every question she won’t ask, one beat for every fear she carries. One beat for every night she spends tucked on the basement couch, one beat for every meal she eats out.

Sitting on the bottom step of the carpeted stairs, I watch my mother’s shadow move over the white frame design on the walls. I watch her silhouette picking up the dirty clothes I always forget to neatly fold, and my sister’s discarded sweaters left behind in youth. I watch her silhouette grow larger as she struggles under the weight of a family growing heavier.

My first pet, Sam.
Slinking across the carpeted bedroom of my 20s.
Her black tail saying hello in a knowing flick,
Her white fur threading itself into the
Folds of the cushions and the weave of my
Blankets. Her,
A piece of her here,
Forever.

Lara’s bubbling laugh,
Boiling over the sill, into our trees.
Paid all her smiles upfront, now we’re left
Counting our blessings in threes.

Jumping on the couch.
The impression of my mother’s form
Hugging the warmth from the night before.
A room with no walls, a calm in the storm.

I open my eyes now, the unfriendly white walls covered in posters staring back at me. Morrison Hotel, Fleetwood Mac, a dresser with three piles of toppling books, New York City postcards, some forgotten poems, a poster of Just Kids and a pile of different coloured hats are what I wake up to. I fell asleep in my childhood bedroom and woke up in my 20s. Was anyone keeping track of time? Where did the years between go?

Planting my feet on the dirty Persian rug from Ikea, the spot where I land still feels unexplored, new, and harsh. It’s cold this morning; Lady Winter spits at me through the screen that my landlord replaced last month. At least I still have that orange painting with the cat. It’s sitting in my closet above the dresses I wore to a bar where men don’t ask. Or under my bed, with all the different shapes and colours and patterns I used to try to understand myself; a struggle, I found, after all those lost years. Maybe it’s still hanging above my door frame at home, in the house that will always be mine but is no longer mine; the one thing I left behind.

I see myself in the mirror—a face I hardly recognize after all this time. A face like my mom’s, with hair like my mom’s, wearing the same everyday paint like my mom’s. I comb my light-brown, shoulder-length hair back using my fingers, relishing in the feeling of my cold hands on my warm scalp. I have always been told I look prettier with my hair back, so I tie it away with a simple black elastic. Tight and taught; a trap set for dreams to get caught and stay quietly inside my head where they can play together.

One last family dinner
He probably told a joke,
She probably smiled.
Would he say sorry, if he understood the end?
Would he look me in the eye, or keep playing pretend?

Tell another joke,
Push the food around for a little while
How long can we make it?

Wishing for a good day,
The last one for a while.

Hold hands for grace,
Thank you, God, for her family.

I walk through the hall to the shared kitchen, noticing the slide of my sock on the light beige wood. I feel the weight of my thoughts pulling down my spine and shaping my back. I move with grace now; no longer the clunky unsure movements of a girl full of silence. I make noise when I pull a plate from the cabinet and push down the toaster button. I place my hands on the counter and look up at the sky through the kitchen window to whatever secrets might lie above. I close my eyes and am pelted with flashes of those grey walls and creaky floors. I remember to fold my laundry today. I remember to put the clothes in neat piles and make a to-do list. I remember to water the plants and feed myself as though I was my own child. I remember to encourage healthy habits, to be nice to others, and to be curious. I remember to call my mom and ask about her day.

I remember the cold tile bleeding through the bottom of my pajamas as I sat trying to decode the ripples in my mother’s features, trying to understand. I remember the dimly lit dawns I spent at the cold kitchen counter in a quiet house. I remember the creaky stairs that would give it all away. I wish my house now had creaky floors. Maybe another 18 years.

She wished the candle didn’t burn so fast,
That time might last forever with the flame.
That she could keep Lara’s laugh in a bottle
And hold it to her ear after everything that became.
Put cookies and milk out one last time,
Hoping that belief itself could stall bedtime.

Knowing how the light
Will come, as light must always come,
She sought to hold it’s fleeting prayer.
Hold it there, just once,
Where family is not a moment but a world.

No one wants to be the first to go –
She, with her cat, bottle, and soft glow,
Slowly, quietly,
Pushes her chair back from the table.

On nights when I’m especially tired or feel a cold breeze through my hair, I close my eyes and see those grey walls with my mother’s curtains and lost time through my eyelids.