The tense-ness feels permanent. Tense-ness? Tense-ity.
“Tension” feels unoriginal. And overused. And it doesn’t feel mine.
Speaking of things that aren’t mine. My mother.
She spoke severely into the phone again like that was going to accomplish anything.

On the other end I imagined another one of his defensive platitudes. I am sorry. I’m trying really hard. I still care about you.
My mother shuts her eyes and opens them again. Each time they close for longer. Each deep breath becomes deeper. Is she buying it? She never tells me. I am stuck instead, with the task of listening to her lungs and studying her eyelids. He probably says something like he’ll change again. He probably means it. She probably thinks he probably means it.

My friend thinks he probably means it. I don’t know why she’s involved but she “provides moral support” every day at school, robbing me of my emotional escape. She says she knows about stuff like this. Dads always say stuff like this. Dads are not dangerous.

So I imagine. I picture his words, erupting on my mother’s face, eroding the skin around her fingers, sinking their teeth in. And it all spells “Tense” and it fills every pocket of calm in the house. 

My mother never marked calendars before. She never stopped at the lens on the door. Back and forth, in small hasty steps, afraid to trip over herself. I used to watch her glide through the balcony, sit on the swing for hours, walk through the open verandah, planting blades of grass to break my fall. Everything is shut now. The doors and windows and her. Everything is caving in and my mother is right here but I can’t see her. My mother. MY mother? No. Just...Mother.

Why does she do this to herself? I wonder.

Why does she pick up? Why does she say hello?

There is no reason to say hello.