Mom Go Black - Watching My

And I realized: she wasn't becoming a villain. She wasn't becoming evil. She was becoming void . Depression had bleached her of spectrum, leeched every wavelength until only the absence remained.

I sat next to her in the dark. I took her cold hand—once the color of sand, now the color of slate. Watching My Mom Go Black

Then her eyes went first. The light in them didn't fade; it retreated . Like an animal backing into a cave. She looked at me, but she looked through me, searching for a little girl who no longer existed. And I realized: she wasn't becoming a villain

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. Depression had bleached her of spectrum, leeched every

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

“I’m still here, Mom,” I said.