Insect in Amber

I remember watching Mother dress for evenings out. I would sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare as she transformed herself from the most beautiful woman in the world to an ethereal being. She would catch my eye in the mirror and pull faces until I laughed, still my mother even in the midst of transformation. Diamonds hung in her ears as stars in the sky, hair swept up onto her head. I liked it best when it cascaded down her back in amber waves, the way she wore it at night when she would tell me stories of all the places she’d been, all the places she was going to take me. I remember how Father would come into the dressing room, pretending to be angry as he scolded Mother for how long she took to get ready. I remember him catching me up in his arms and spinning me round, telling me how lucky he was to have his two best girls, the loveliest girls in all the world. He always smelled of pine and baking. He smelled of home. I remember mornings with sunshine and pancakes, rainy day afternoons and reading by the fire, long evening walks when Father used to carry me as soon as I got tired. I remember falling asleep in the field behind our house beneath the pear tree. I would spend all evening catching fireflies, then drift off outside, completely safe and content, somehow waking in my bed the next morning. I remember bliss.

I remember Mother holding me tight in the closet with one hand over my mouth and the other gripping my arm so tightly I was sure she’d break the skin. I wanted to run away but she said you’ll be safe here. I didn’t believe her. I remember listening to my heartbeat, my mind curiously detached from the quick thump thump thump it beat out. I remember shouting and bullets and blood blood blood and cold and a silence so demanding I think it stopped time.

I remember waiting, waiting, waiting so long until I couldn’t stand the silence, until I had to break it and defy its deafening stillness. Father used to like peace and quiet, to read the paper. This was quiet, no peace. Violence left behind a heavy aura in the air. I remember crawling, alone, out from the closet. Mother had gone to help Father, that’s what she said. I found them together. I screwed my eyes tightly shut and promised myself they were sleeping, that it was a game. A terrible, awful game. Mother wake up. Wake up, please, Mother. I remember her face. It looked all wrong, my beautiful mother. Her face was all tangled up in red and her hands were cold. I remember feeling wet and sticky, seeing diamond earrings sparkling in a sea of crimson. I remember Father, eyes open and glassy, tears still wet on his stiff cheeks. I tried to kiss them away. I left red imprints, red like Mother’s lipstick, but all wrong. I couldn’t smell pine or baking, just metal and the sharp scent of my own fear.

Time has passed since. But people lie. Time does nothing to dull the edges of pain or bring the sweet relief of forgetting. Time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes it exacerbates them, sliding its knife under the stitches and drawing fresh blood. Memory is a prison, amplifying grief with the curse of reminiscence. Despite my best efforts, even after all these years I can still hear the thump thump thump of my heart, echoing out the refrain I remember I remember I remember.