My Momma's Love

I was about six when he started beating her. For a couple of months, it was mostly drunken yells that seemed to reverberate all over the small house. Then loud bangs and momma's screams were added to the chorus of chaos. Late into the night, I would hold my breath, hoping that daddy had finally drank himself to sleep. When mornings would come, momma would be humming in the kitchen like last night's hell was merely a nightmare. Sometimes she would manage to cake on enough makeup to hide the dark purple bruises. Other times they would peak through the layers, revealing the truth of the matter.

Early morning breakfast was usually our only solace. Where we were able to drink in each other's company while daddy lay in bed sleeping off a nasty hangover. Sometimes we would sit in silence, peeking over our plates to exchange loving smiles. Other times momma would tell me stories about magical creatures and powerful princesses. Her big blue eyes would light up as I hung on her every word. When I would return from school, daddy had usually finished up his day at the sawmill. Comfortably positioned in his red chair, with a glass of whiskey clasped in his dirty hand. If he was in a good mood, he would call me over and ask about my day. As I would rattle on about the mundane world of a child, he would thoughtfully rub his beard.

For a couple of years, this destructive dance continued. Nights of terror, mornings of bliss, and mommas stories to keep me company through it all. Until one day I walked through the front door of our small house to find the red chair was empty. And it remained empty for days. And then weeks. And then a month passed without any yelling or dark purple bruises. Although me and momma never talked about it, a new warmth began to fill the house. Every day after school we would play cards or build forts with moth-eaten blankets. For money, momma would sew beautiful dresses for the little girls in town. I would even help sometimes, with my clumsy stitches that momma would have to redo when I wasn't looking.

A couple of days after my tenth birthday, just as I had begun to forget daddy's face, I awoke to a shrill scream. ‘He’s back,’ I thought, as I lay stiff under the covers, waiting for the inevitable curses that would escape the monster's mouth. But they didn't come. Instead, the intense silence was cut once again by a scream. Otherworldly, jarring, and definitely not mommas. A new fear replaced the old, a fear of the unknown, mixed with a healthy level of excitement. As if I had just been plunged into a fairytale with a beast of my own to defeat.

The worry seemed to quell when the sun shone through my window and mommas humming could be heard through thin walls. That morning I just lay and listened, drinking in the sweet sound, made even sweeter by the rhythmic movement of pots and pans. By the time I had found my place at the rickety table, a feast of grits and eggs had been laid out. Momma ran a hand through my tangled hair and smiled with tired eyes.

“Momma," I inquired, refusing to meet her gaze. “Did you hear a noise last night?”

When I finally looked up, I saw that she had a smidge of mischief in her eyes.“ You must of heard my friend the barn owl.”

“A barn owl? But we ain't got a barn!"

She laughed lightly, placing a hand on my cheek. “Honey you are so right. For some reason, she seems to like us enough to overlook our shortcomings. I think every creature just likes to be around love. And we got heaps of it in this house.”

My chest filled with pride over being chosen and any fear that lingered dissipated. “Have you seen her? I mean..what does she look like?”

“Well, I think she may be a little shy cuz I haven't caught a glimpse of her quite yet. But she’ll reveal herself when she's good and ready.”

Every weekend after that, me and momma would drag our mattresses out onto the front porch. We would stay up late into the night, watching the stars and hoping our barn owl would show her face. Sometimes her screeches would sound close enough to touch, giving us renewed vigor and wiping the tired from our eyes. On one Sunday, after a particularly late night of owl watching, momma came home from town with a present. As usual, I rushed to the door to greet her. Instead of embracing me in her arms, she handed me a neatly wrapped box. “Well don't just stare at it, open it why don't you!" We both laughed as I tore at the paper and ripped open the box with haste that only an excited child could muster. Inside, a snowy white owl peered out from the cover of a brand new book, seemingly just as mesmerized by me as I was by him. Beautiful, colorful illustrations littered the pages, with factoids about each kind of owl tossed in ever so often. We flipped through it so much over the next few months, that the bind began to break apart and pages started to spill out.

I was almost twelve when I came home one day to find a man sitting in daddy's red chair. No one has sat there in years, a forgotten relic of a different time. The red had begun to fade to brown, and dust bunnies hopped around on the worn cushion. I took a few tentative steps closer, examining the man's stubble-ridden face. A baseball cap covered his eyes, and his mouth was agape, light snores escaping intermittently. I stood there for a long while as my brain took its time in concluding the obvious. Maybe it was giving me a few moments before the pain sat in. Before my heart dropped violently, and my stomach urged me to release everything...before the veil was ripped from my eyes, and the only thing that remained was daddy, and a whole lot of pain.

Our barn owl stopped coming after that day. Daddy was nice enough at first, seemingly keeping his drunken escapades at the nearest bar. He even bought me a dress, although I preferred the ones momma made me. But apparently, a demon's thirst for violence can’t be quenched by bar fights. Apparently, they need to beat on a woman to feel truly satisfied. It took a couple of years, but one night daddy hit her a little too hard, and momma never got up again. I was the one that found her, sprawled out on the bathroom floor with dried blood pooled around her delicate head. There seemed to be a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and her blue eyes remained open in a dreamy stare. I don't remember feeling sad, just terribly lonely. Maybe it was because I always knew it was just a matter of time. Or maybe the thought of momma being finally free gave me some comfort. After we buried her, I left daddy to drown himself in alcohol.

Today, at 28 years old, I drove up the narrow dirt road that led to our old house. Moving through each room with tenderness and longing, I finally found myself standing in the kitchen. The table still stood somehow, but the matchbox that kept it even was long gone. Dust and cobwebs had found a home in almost every corner, and the counters had been eaten away by hungry critters. I closed my eyes, placing my hand on the only chair that remained. The echoes of momma’s humming filled my head and seemed to spill out into the room. And as I looked towards the busted kitchen window, I saw an old owl staring back at me. “All creatures just wanna be around love,” I whispered, tears beginning to spill over. As I left our old broken-down house, I could hear her deafening screech in the distance.