Page 14 of Daughter of Rot

She was here and now she’s not.

We are born to die.

She was born to decay and I feel fine.

***

Olivia walks up to the podium. Her mother, in a white casket, still and silent behind her. A projector cycles through old photos of Isela. Olivia shakes the nerves out of her hands and takes in a deep breath. She hides behind a black veil. She pulls it over her head.

My mom was a complicated woman to love, but I loved her anyway. She taught me independence and she taught me how to cook. I never got to thank her for that. I hope she knows she was loved, even in her gravitation toward distance. I am thankful to be a part of this family, who loved my mother in spite of her complicated history. Mom, I love you. I am your daughter which means, in you, there are reflections of me, and in me, there are reflections of you.

WEAPONS

I don’t have anything else to say to you because it doesn’t matter.

Olivia places pink roses and a bundle of lavender by the base of the old oak tree. She’s at the house to collect her old journals and drawings. Isela’s ghost follows behind her, floating inches above the ground.

What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?

Specks of dust glitter the old house and Olivia’s nose transports her to the past. She remembers the first time Isela ever hit her. It was across her face with a rolled-up magazine. Then, the first time Isela called her ungrateful.

Then, selfish.

Then, a nuisance.

A brat.

A waste.

A regret.

There were a lot of different names for daughter. Olivia thumbs through her journals and grazes the frayed edges of ripped out pages. She used to burn them so Isela was unable get her hands on them. It was a small act of rebellion that made her smile.

It doesn’t matter because anything I say won’t get through to you unless it’s how you want to hear it. You see the world how you want to see it. That doesn’t change because you’re dead.

Her mother’s expertise was in slow forms of manipulation. The kinds that slip into your sleep or crawl under your skin. Olivia was inundated with invasive questions her entire childhood. Questions disguised as concern. Questions meant to sound harmless. Isela could spin any answer into a weapon.

Is that what you want to say to your dead mother? I only asked you why you aren’t taking better care of yourself. I can tell by your face. You're bloated. Look at the state of you.

Isela was dead.

Olivia felt relief and a sense of euphoria which she could never admit out loud. She slept like a baby the day after her death. Then, her ghost showed up.

Ma, you only listen for snippets of words to use against me. You don’t actually listen to anything I have to say. I am not doing this today. I don’t have the energy. I am not responsible for you.

I did love you. I tried to.

I know.

Your grandma never protected me. Your grandpa was a terrible man.

I know.

You don’t have to forgive me, you know.

I know.

Olivia knew not to say that, but the only power she had over her mother at that moment was that she was alive and her mother obviously wasn’t.