MOTHER MARY SETS A FIRE
by Victoria Mbabazi
My mother says when she left home she never went back. She said this once three times. She said this once when I tried to go to the library. I used to sit in libraries all day. I loved them wherever we lived. I used to read books about women who loved knitting. All the women were forty and restarting an aspect of their lives. If I can’t unravel, let me tie knots instead.
When I leave home I hope to never come back. My favourite books were about desperate women in the suburbs. They all believe in God. It does nothing to them. They’re always getting divorced. I love divorces. Pains that lead to wholeness. When I leave home I always come back.
My mother never believes me. She didn’t know she’d never see her own again. She didn’t know she was alive until her second child was born. Pain that leads to awareness. When I come home Mother Mary lights the living room on fire. No one is in it. I am afraid of burning. I am the witch of the house. I don’t touch holy water. I am afraid of burning.
I choke the fires out. I am a sinner. I want God to know me. Every time a candle goes out I’m afraid Mary will start speaking. She doesn’t speak. I know what she would say. She doesn’t say it. My mother says when she left home she never came back. She said it once when I was leaving. She said it once I’m always leaving. My pain leads to leaving.
Victoria Mbabazi is currently Canadian in Brooklyn, New York. victoriambabazi.ca