Memories

Even after all those years, I know that I never appreciated this place; I didn’t want to.

The backstreets of Spain had always been beautiful, never cold, or daunting, or even remotely threatening. Such carefully crafted architecture could never be seen as a malevolent setting.

But it was.

It hid the truth; it covered many passionate fights, many broken homes. But still, every morning the people would gather in the market place, happy, contented -like the miseries of the previous night had never occurred- they would greet each other warmly behind fake smiles.

When I was ever so young, I remember my mother telling me, “Listen, my dear, if there is one piece of advice that I give to you it will be this; keep you friends close to you, but keep your enemies closer.” I’d never realised how truly spiteful my mother was.

To think I looked up to her. To me; she was a swan, soaring high, independently and I? I was just the weak duckling that watched in awe. I didn’t realise that you never were such a swan, and it never occurred to me that, you, my own mother, was belittling me for your own gratification.

I asked her, “Why mother, why does my own brother get a birthday party, and not me?” You replied.

“Because, my child, a boy is a blessing and a girl should know that it is her place to sit in the shadows.”

It was surreal; the world leads us to believe that love and tenderness is surrounded by us all, but in reality, we are all alone. It is only our pride that makes us strong enough to stand out.

By the time I was in my teens, I knew this. I knew that only I could help myself get by. To sit in the shadows, was not my place. I would not allow it.

It never seemed to rain in Spain, and if it did, it was a romantic passionate rain, not a depressing rain. In fact, when it rained the people rejoiced, such weather was a sacred. Sacred rain? No, not sacred, people just want what they don’t have, they appreciate it more. I guess that’s why I never respected the land I lived on. Perhaps, that why I wanted to prove my mother wrong so badly; I thought I could be something important.

That’s why I left. I left, never to return. Only, I did return and I can honestly say I regret leaving here. It was like I was desperately grasping for freedom, but I caught it only to find that I didn’t like the feeling at all.

That’s right; I left in hope of a new found life to find that such a thing never existed. Sure, I was free, free to be left alone with no support, free to have to take on troubles that I wasn’t quite ready to take on. I was free, but still trapped within myself.

Now, I’ve returned all those years later to find an empty doorway to a vacant house. In fact, the whole town was desolate.

But if I close my eyes, I’m still seven years old. The baker still comes out ever Wednesday with his batch of freshly baked slices of heaven. If I think about it enough, I can still smell the salty ocean that surrounds this animated town. The sound of stray farmyard animals, clucking, mooing, quacking. Children playing with skipping ropes; their feet lightly hitting the floor.

But when I open my eyes I see the ghost town.

What a pity, the town failed just as abysmally as I did.

They tell me my mother died. They did. That’s why I’m here, it’s her funeral.

There weren’t many people there, just a few faceless people and a stray dog. I couldn’t help but sneer at the irony, her beloved sons didn’t turn up to her funeral but her lousy, good-for-nothing daughter showed up.

I’m angry, possibly sad, and almost remorseful.

After all those years of trying to get away from my mother, trying to not be like her, I find that, somehow... I’m more like her than ever.

Okay, please don't kill me. I know it's not perfect. Seriously, it's short and over dramatic. But hey! You can't blame a girl for having a go, can you?

What do you guys think?