Two Sides of the Same Coin

Her:

Every word she has blasted through her foghorn of a mouth, unheard. Every letter she has scraped from the inside of her head with picky, picky fingers to construct into the most poignant sentence so that it. Will. Hit, ignored. All the dregs of exhaustion she has dredged up, patted and pressed to a form Ammu can’t turn from, can’t overlook, can’t pretend away, avoided.

And so bricks have been built upon bricks.

A brick for a pointed finger.

A brick for a shake of the head.

A brick for a lie, a brick for an open red mouth, a brick for the spittle that flies.

A brick for every shard of hurt, a stacked and staggered wall.

Waves of an uncontrollable intensity tower and tumble, converge in masses and climb over one another to majestic heights, build to crests then shatter themselves against her unbreakable, unyielding wall.

Stoked, that unbreakable, unyielding wall unseats.

Its foundation, created of the strongest will, gives way. Collapses to the greedy, frothing waves.

Left with nothing to contend with, no longer repressed, she feels it flood her body. Surging from one cavernous lung to another, suffocating her esophagus, squeezing her throat to dryness, pressurizing her eyeballs.

She has searched.

And there is no longer, in the mere space of a heartbeat, the composure Ammu expects.

Ammu lifted the stopper, and she has been a dormant whirlpool for too long.

Ammu:

Ammu wonders, watching the condensation pool slowly on a smudged window, if her legs are locked to this chair. A buzz sounds persistently in her ear, an amalgamation of worries and concerns, reminding her of the need to get up and get on, so Ammu reverts to the usual distraction, the children she lives and breathes.

Since birth they have called her this name, Ammu, a spin on the honorary title Ma; a name that encompasses respect and intimacy, a neat label for their bond. They listen, look up at her with earned adoration, find meaning in her words.

It is a name that invokes the swelling of some vital organ, that assuages some ache she senses but can’t solve. An ache that emanates from a place her daughters will never face.

Ammu understands, firsthand, of course, the role of words, the way they can release and constrict around the throat, the way they pass from the lips, contort into something different by the time they land in a waiting ear.

Hers may drop from a scathing tongue, but they are coated with the intent to soothe and comfort, to alleviate pain in harmony with a reprimand.

In return it provides a silence to the ever constant buzz, muffles the unnecessary and kindles peace.

Ammu knows she did the right thing. But she remains seated.

These water droplets forming streams on the smudged window in front of her are captivating. One large, lazy, rolling droplet draws the others towards it, attaches slowly, then smothers them.