Sometimes I Hear My Mother

My mom always told me I could be a writer, but she never taught me to stand up for myself. 

She always told me I had to go to college, but she never explained the difference between love and sex. 

I can’t count the number of times she yelled that I had no common sense, but she never asked about my homework. 

She mastered the art of a guilt trip, but could never quite figure out how to ask me how my day was. 

Sometimes when I sing out loud, her voice comes out. It’s one of the few things from my past that comforts me. To young ears she sang like an angel. I loved hearing her sing. 

Now sometimes when I sing out loud, I hear her voice, like picking up scraps of my past, picking through the detritus left on the ground, piece by piece, and choosing which parts to shovel into the trash. I want to save the gems among the garbage. There are so few. 

Sometimes I sing out loud just to go back for a while. 

It’s like my life is fragmented, and none of it actually goes together. 

Sweet, simple life, a momma and her little girl 

Then him and him and her made three and there was no room for a fourth 

Then man after man, each face reminding me in a flash of someone else’s life 

And now married with my own family and no connection to the sweet, simple life that her momma tried so hard to give her. Just a tune sung in the kitchen among the dirty dishes. 

Like scraps of paper 

Like pieces of confetti, chaotic and colorful and crinkly and wild 

I want to put this piece of my life in the fiction section. 



Author: Chandi Gilbert
Email: chandi@chandigilbert.com
Author Bio: Chandi is a published author and freelance writer for hire from Ohio. She writes about all the dark, twisted things that hover in the back of your mind. She could make a living as a professional reality TV watcher, but for now, she is feeding her weird little heart by letting it spill out into the public.
Link to social media or website: http://ieatthewolf.com/ 



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One response to “Sometimes I Hear My Mother

  1. I have been thinking about the fragmented pieces of life, too. Love this piece. And then we go on endlessly trying not to make the same mistakes our parents made, right? Just when I realize I’ve actually done that, I recall the brand new ones I can call all my own. LOL.

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