Momma was a Witch
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wicked Witch.”
I’ve been blogging on lighter notes lately rather than darker ones. I’d like to keep it that way. But today’s prompt moved me and it is difficult to write lightly about evil. I have come face to face with evil in my life and have written about it in older posts (see Parts 1 – 9, Archives: July).
My mother, with each passing year, looked more and more like a witch. In her youth, she was a beauty with porcelain skin, luminous eyes, rose colored lips and thick brunette hair. In black and white photos she looked like an angel. Unlike Dorian Gray (in Oscar Wilde’s book) her sick nature transformed her face from beautiful to ugly during her lifetime. By the time she reached sixty she looked exactly like the the comic drawings of Maxine but more witch-like. She was bug-eyed and her skin craggy with a twisted mouth.
I do her no disservice here. She aspired to be a witch. She didn’t drive and would offer to take you places on her broom. She cackled rather than laughed. She liked to be considered scary — especially to children. She reveled in bitter and ugly words and talk. She spoke hatefully of nearly everyone. Our home was her cauldron where she brewed wicked concoctions of all types of abuse. And she was able to cast spells. Her most magnificent one was to make our family look normal to the neighbors. We were made to look like the poster-family of middle class America. Our yard was beautifully manicured and lush with flowers. We would be seen going to church every Sunday. My sister and I had the nicest manners. My parents were seen as friendly and down to earth, sincere people. My mother appeared as a good mother. It was a glamour she cast well. I even believed it at times — when we were outside and she was being charming to the neighbors. I wanted to live in that reality and did while I was playing at my neighborhood friend’s house. But eventually the street lights came on and it was time to go home.
Her powers diminished as she grew older. My sister and I left home. She grew miserable having no one to torture. And she eventually died in a nursing home. I always wonder which momma did the nurses see — the good momma or the momma that was a witch?