Born Under A Bad Sign Essay
I was born into this world on the darkest night. One lost soul passed and another lost soul was born to wander the path in her place. Sometimes, I think back to that night and what she must have looked like, how her breast must have felt, rising and falling with its last breaths. What was it like, to finally exhale, finally pass, nice and peaceful, on to somewhere and have a place to belong? Once, I asked our matron after I’d taken my rations from her, and Mrs. Brewer put a shriveled hand over her heart and looked at the ceiling with a sigh. She said my mother has wings now, and she sings all day and night. And I didn’t say it out loud, but the more I thought about my mother, the more I began to hope that someday, the same might happen to me.
But then I look around and I wonder whether heaven isn’t just a story that Mrs. Brewer made up to get us all to stop crying at night. Because I don’t know how all of it -- any of it -- can be true. My mother doesn’t flutter on a pair of downy gold wings. She couldn’t watch over me then, and she can’t now. The blackness is too thick down here. It covers her face in my mind. It hides us from the minds of others, and it barrages against my memories like waves on gritty, gray sand. I sometimes worry that if these waves keep beating on my shores, soon there will be nothing left. That those cold waters will one day be able to wash right over me, another island sunk below the surface.
They haven’t been able to wipe…