Dandelions

My mama died when I was eight years old. I remember the feel of her hand on my forehead before she’d kiss me good night. It’s such a small thing to remember, but it’s one of the strongest memories I still have.

Her blue eyes would dance in the moonlight. She was beautiful, almost oddly beautiful. Like an angel. But she was so sad.

My dad’s drinking was getting worse, and at night when they thought I was asleep, I’d hear him yelling at Mama while she cried. Sometimes she’d have bruises on her arms, but she’d always make up excuses when I asked what happened. She slowly grew more distant and even sadder.

The night before she died, she just looked at me. Stared at me for so long. I could see the despair in her eyes so clearly right then. I hugged her, trying to help in some way. She started crying; so hard I thought her tiny body would break.

She kept saying she was sorry. So sorry, and I didn’t know why. She said she loved me more than anything else in the world.

The next morning I looked for her because I’d found a bunch of dandelions and picked them for her. She’d always loved dandelions, how they can pop up anywhere. Yellow was her favorite color; she said it was such a happy color, reminded her sunshine. So I picked some for her, my hands stained with their smell and their stickiness.

I found her in my parents’ bedroom. She’d hung herself by one of the exposed rafters. I didn’t scream or cry; just ran to the neighbor, telling her that my mama had died. She went all pale, called me a poor little thing in between shouts for her husband. He came; I watched as he untied the rope around Mama’s neck.

All that time, I didn’t let go of those dandelions. It’s weird. But I held those in my hand until they put her in the coffin, and I slipped them under her limp hand. Her expression was something I didn’t have words for. It was haunting. Blonde, gorgeous, kind, she was dead.

The funeral was two days later, and everyone kept telling Dad and me how sorry he or she was, that she’d done that to us. As though Mama did it to hurt us. She didn’t. I know that with all my heart.