Thursday, June 18, 2015


Lubna:  My mother.  What can I say about my mother.  Her name, Willow Green.  Her hair, red flames licking the sides of a funky hat like a fedora with a peacock feather or a floppy, pink straw one.  She is short and round and has a smile that lights up my world.

When she smiles.  If she smiles.

For all her flowery caftans and floppy hats, bright red hair and hippie name, my mother is not happy.  I'm afraid it's my fault.  She doesn't say it but if it weren't my fault, why wouldn't she say that, why wouldn't she say, "Lubna, you are the light of my life, I love you and I'm proud of you and you make me want to live."

Why wouldn't she want to live?

The scars criss-cross her arms and even her legs.  Once she tried to cut off her own belly fat, or so it seemed she was trying to do.  I saw her in the bathroom, tears streaming over her cheeks as she drew a circle on her stomach and then went at it with a razor until I screamed.

Scars, red, white, brown with scabs.  She says she's not really suicidal, that the cutting is just a release.

She has never said that it's not my fault.

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