Mother

My mom died three months ago. She was old, she was sick, and it was her time. But she didn’t want to go. More then anything, she wanted to stay, just a little while longer. She cried on her deathbed. And sometimes, when I come home, it’s like I can feel her here. Like, I’ve forgotten everything and she’s still here, and then when I remember it’s a shock.

My wife says I’m still getting used to her not being here. I say differently. I know it’s weird, but it’s commforting, all the same.

But then things took a...sinister turn. Mother was always very possessive. She never did like my wife, although she refrained from speaking directly to her about anything.

In death, she had no such qualms. My wife was pushed down the stairs by a ghostly hand, her jewelry went missing. A light exploded above her head. All perfectly explainable things. And soon it wasn’t just her. My Mother was always strict. She hated it when I put my feet up on the table. I did it in her absence, and spilled piping hot coffe on myself. I spent the rest of the day in the burn ward.

We talked, my wife and I, and we moved. Everything conceavable went wrong. Nothing paranormal. A gust of wind smashing china. The movers getting a flat tire and having to postpone the day. Twice. I cut myself heavily whilst I shaved. A slip of the hand? No.

But once we were out, everything stopped. The new arrivals in our home have no complaints. I’m having second thoughts on my opinion of Mother.

Submitted by Richard Kells, Kilkenny, Ireland