It’s the little things in life that get you. The accidental slip into a puddle—new shoes ruined. The unintended hurtful word that you let fester until you are certain that the person who said it ought to be punched in the mouth. The missed taxi, the late friend, the longer than expected work day. We’ve all had these little things bother us—get us down. I’m no different. I find a rock on the side of the street and throw it at a nearby garbage can. The sound echoes my frustration though the alleyway.
My name is Bert. I’m 16 years old. I should be in school. I should be with friends—with her. But life is different for each of us. Instead of doing what I ought to be doing, I’m sitting on the curb outside my house dreading going in.
I finished work 20 minutes ago. I’m filthy. My hair is covered in ash and soot; as are my clothes and any exposed skin. I am a chimney sweep by trade. It pays ok enough—enough to provide food for my mother and me. I sit and stare off into the distance, thinking about my father—wondering how things would be different if he were alive.
I remember what life was like. Cleaner house, more money, more food. I’m running home from school to play with my father. He’s a large man with huge hands—hands that could seemingly crush you, yet they are more often used to hold you and comfort you.
I burst through the door and yell, “Father! I’m home!” There is no response. “Mother? I’m home.” Again nothing. I go from room to room. I hear something in my parent’s bedroom. My mother is crying. The scene is unreal. I’m only 14 at the time and I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. My father is face down on the floor, blood pooled by his body. My mother is kneeling next to him, uncontrollable. It’s only then that I notice the house—really notice it. Items are broken and strewn everywhere. I feel my heart hitting my chest. I’m going to be sick. I’m in shock and I scream, “BLOODY HELL! What HAPPENED! Mum! WHAT HAPPENED?!”
She doesn’t answer me. Instead she holds my father. Then I notice the broken window. “Did someone break into the house? What happened?!” I’m kneeling next to her, shaking her, avoiding the thought of my father. I need to know what happened.
“He’s dead.” She whispers. “Shot. An intruder. Looking for something…”
I’m brought back from my thoughts by a passerby. I decide to go inside. I face the door, and realize I’m facing another evening of hell. My mother is sick. She has never recovered from my father’s death. It haunts her and as a consequence, she has failing health. She’s nearly bed ridden, and thusly, I have to provide—in every way. But I’m 16. I feel so alone, yet I have to be strong. I can’t let my mother ruin the rest of my life. I loved my father and I miss him, but I have my life to worry about now—and my mother has hers, and ought to shake free.
I open the door. The smell sickens me. My mother is bad today. The foul odor tells me she’s had an accident.
Opting to by myself a minute or two longer, I move quietly to the washroom to clean up a bit. In front of the mirror I look at myself, pausing to search for signs of happiness. The signs are there. My life isn’t a total waste I think. “You’ll be something great!” I say to myself.
There, from those deep blue eyes staring back at me I see it—the flame that drives me. Drives me to rise past my lot. To find those responsible for my father’s death and bring justice. To be with her.
“Bert? Is that you?” My mother’s voice is raspy and weak.
“Yes mum. I’ll be right in.” I try to place a tone of compassion in my voice when I speak to her, but admittedly I’m getting frustrated and it clearly seeps through.
I gather up the needed clothes and rags to clean up her mess and her room. After the cleaning, I sit hunched in a nearby chair. My mother has drifted off to sleep again and I can hear her soft breathing—so calm and relaxed. I watch her chest rise and fall with each breath. The anger and frustrations of the day give way to my own fatigue and hunger. I take one last look at my mother and realize that I love her so dearly. I hate my lot right now, but she is my mum, and I know eventually she will snap to and things will eventually have some tone of normalcy again.
I leave her bedroom and make my way to the washroom to get cleaned up before putting together some dinner. The soap is already covered in days worth of soot and filth, but rinses clean as I hold it firmly under the faucet. I twist it round and round in my hands, careful not to drop it. “It’s like a game!” My father would say to me. “Careful now, it gets a bit slickery.” Slickery. He always made up words just to make me smile.
The soap slips from my hands and rattles around on the bottom of the basin. I lost the game. I chuckle to myself at the thought. Splashing water on my face makes me feel renewed and ready to leave behind the day’s weight. I dry my hands and face and make my way to the kitchen. I’m not really sure what I am going to make. I spy a relatively fresh loaf of bread—at least I don’t notice too much mold on it. I tear the moldy pieces off and then piece out the loaf into two dishes and pour some milk over the bread.
I eat this meal most every day it seems, but I still enjoy it and it’s filling. I devour my portion and then walk the other into my mother’s room. “Mum, I’ve some supper for you.” She moans a little and turns to face me. Her eyes find mine and she smiles. My heart warms and for a moment I see her again—beautiful and full of life. But the moment passes and I can only see how skeletal she looks. Her eyes are sunken and creased from months of inner turmoil.
“Bert, thank you so much dear.” She struggles to sit up so I set the bowl down and take her by the hands. She takes the food as I hand it to her and pretends to enjoy a couple bites. But I’m smarter than she knows. I know she can barely keep the food down, but she tries for me.
I note something different in the way she is eating tonight. Every move is deliberate, determined. She pauses and clinches her jaw in what I can only assume is anger. She sets the food in her lap and weakly lifts her head to face me and then I see it. Her eyes are aflame.
“Mum what is it?” I say.
“Bert, it is all I can do to sit up in this bed. It is all I can do to eat this food. If I had to wager, I would say I didn’t have long left to live. But I don’t wager Bert! And I want to live! And I will live!” Her breathing was heavy and very labored.
“What are you saying Mum?”
“That I’m sorry Bert. I’m so very sorry! You have borne too much burden. It has not been fair to you son.”
I certainly agree with her words, but I find myself sitting by her side, holding her and telling her it is alright. Of course I’m lying. But I can’t believe what I’m seeing and hearing.
“I’m weak son. But starting this night, I am resolute to be whole again—and shortly!” At that she falls back on the pillows, her breaths shallow and wheezing.
“Eat your food mum.”
For the first time in two years I find myself smiling at home. I have reason to hope—until I notice that my mother has stopped breathing.
