Mother isn’t awake often. She lives in the other world, unable to face this one. The one I hardly live in myself. Her depression has become a part of her. It is in her blood, her bones.
Those eyes of hers, deep and brown, have more than one soul. It is as if every ghost that haunts her, lives inside of them. They speak, but not clearly. They are laments and moans. They tell you her history, the world’s history.
Mother’s voice is loud, or nothing at all. It is lost in apathy, or it is desperate to be heard. No one ever listens to her. No one listens to a prisoner.