Watching My Mom Go Black [FREE]

Her laugh—once a brass section—turned to charcoal. Brittle. If you touched it, it would crumble into dust.

She used to be yellow—the good kind. The yellow of lemon zest, of morning eggs, of the sun through the kitchen blinds as she hummed Stevie Wonder off-key. Her hands were the color of warm sand then, always moving, braiding my hair or tapping the counter to a rhythm only she could hear. Watching My Mom Go Black

Not a peaceful quiet. The kind that fills a room after a slammed door. She started staring at the TV after the news went off, watching the static snow. I’d catch her in the hallway at 3 a.m., not sleepwalking, just standing , as if she’d forgotten the geography of her own home. Her laugh—once a brass section—turned to charcoal

“I’m still here, Mom,” I said.