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Things My Mother Said
by Nana K. Adjel-Brenyah My mother’s favorite thing to say to me was, “I am not your friend,” a gentle reminder against casual treatment. She’d often say, “You are my first born son, my only son,” as a reminder not to die. She loved saying, as a way to keep me humble, “I didn’t have a mother. You’re lucky. You have a mother.” When the T.V went dark, my mother said, “Good. Now you can read more.” Then, our house at the bottom of a hill lost all its life: gas, water, electric. One day, I came home to the warm smell of chicken and rice. I hadn’t been able to steal a second burger in the cafeteria at school that day. My stomach was already whining disappointment. It would scream later. At home, the fridge had become a foul smelling box. The range and oven were just decorations. Hunger colored those days. “Where is this from?” I asked, already carving out a healthy portion from a worn grey pot. My mother pretended she didn’t hear me. She was studying pages of her massive white bible at the kitchen table. Wide sheets of light pressed through the window and draped her. She spent her days reading that big bible. Its pages wore to film as her fingers fluttered from psalm to psalm. She’d be asleep by the splash of dusk. I, on the other hand, would be up for hours. Trying to do homework by the blue glow of my cell phone, clinging to its light until it died. At night, hunger and I huddled together. I fell asleep thinking one day I would change everything. I ate the chicken and rice that tasted of pepper and smoke. “How did you make this, Mom?” I asked again. She looked up from her bible and over her thin wire glasses. “Did you pray over your food? Did you say your psalms today?” I ate the food quickly, greedily. I chewed the bones till they splintered in my mouth. Later, when I was in the backyard, hesitant to return to the dying box as the sun dipped away, I found a patch of charred grass and a small circle of blackened stones and pebbles. An ash moon branded into a sea of wild green grass. I felt proud and ashamed. Still, I guess it doesn’t matter, but I think about it. Is there anybody left who would make a fire in the backyard for me while I’m elsewhere blaming them for all my problems? For the record, I know I was lucky, I know I am lucky, I don’t think you’re stupid, I know I am not your friend, I hope you can be proud of me. |
Nana K. Adjei-Brenyah is currently working towards his MFA at Syracuse University. He likes thinking about the good he's done or failed to do. His fiction has been featured in Broken Pencil Magazine and Gravel Online Journal.
