• inspired by a video i saw; 4/24

There’s something so peaceful about seeing your mother with the head of a deer. She stares vacantly through the chestnut French window situated above the sink. There’s nothing but black through the panes, and it matches her eyes. You don’t move. Neither does she. You’re not sure if she knows you’re here. The dim, warm light of the fading lightbulb your father screwed in last spring illuminates the soft shades of brown that adorn your kitchen. The teak cabinets and patterned stone tiles are all drenched in an artificial yet comforting amber.

You both stand, stagnant. Her body is the same, but she has antlers. You look past the biological discrepancy; it’s the smallest violation of the laws of nature occurring at the moment. It’s beautiful, in a way. She looks calm, and it almost feels like she’s more your mother now than she had ever been in the past. Her doe eyes seem more human than she ever had before.

She has a plate in her hand, rendered motionless in the middle of a circle. She was like this when you walked in; maybe it happened when she was scrubbing the dishes. You can’t break your gaze, but the sight is lachrymal.

You walk towards her and hug her, from behind. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t look, but you feel that encompassing sort of love only a mother can give. And in that moment, you see her for who she truly is.