Skeletons. Maani Ekka

Mama didn’t have to tell me there were skeletons in her closet. I saw them.

I saw them in the flash of the white scarf that hangs all the way in the back. Never touched. Never worn, never spoken about. There’s a shadow over her eyes every time she gets a glimpse of it. Like she’s staring death in the face.

I saw them in a photo buried in a drawer in the way bottom, among the good jewelry she hides and the sandalwood powder sachet she keeps in there. It’s a woman and a baby. Her and her mother, I think.

I asked about it once. I never did again- the silence I received from her for the remainder of the week was enough to terrify me.

You can glimpse the skeletons when she steps on the scales and breathes a sigh of relief with every pound she gains.

Mama won’t let me into the blue bin- the one filled with pictures. Does she know I’ve been through them?

There’s only a handful of them, but they’re there. A man with a funny goatee and mustache. Two boys and a girl, and then another girl. Occasionally another boy. A family.

Mama never talks ‘bout them. I have a great aunt, and cousins. That’s my family. We don’t talk about nothing before. My great Aunt’s getting real old, and she’s old enough and pale enough for me to know that Mama isn’t actually related. We talk about her cousin and Aunt in New York- when I was younger I thought that they might be the key, but they’re not either.

I asked my cousin - my great aunt’s granddaughter- about them once. She showed me a few pictures of her, Mama and a boy- one of her brothers. All my cousin could tell me was that he lived with my great aunt and mama for a bit, and then, he moved back. And she knew nothing more.

I know mama has skeletons because she gets this look in her eye when people talk about traveling. Like she’s lost.

One of mama’s coworkers once told me that mama was the best-traveled teacher in the district. I told her that she must be joking since she only goes three places- work, home, and my great aunt’s. And then the teacher pointed out all the pictures in the room– her geography classroom.

It turns out Mama took all of them. All of them, from the faded images of icy lakes to the still-bright portraits of tropics and sunkissed crowds of lives far removed from this small town I’ve never called anything but home.

I tried looking a few times. At the library, through newspaper articles and census records. But there’s nothing. Not a trace of her. It’s like she just appeared out of nowhere. Filling in some gap that didn’t exist. Blending into the backdrop without blemish or foreign tinge.

I brought someone home one day, and Mama was more guarded than usual. That night, she told me very quietly not to trust anyone whose skeletons I didn’t know by each and every bone. I turned and looked at her quizzically, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish. I had so many questions, but no words.

I barely knew Mama’s skeletons- let alone their bones. Did I trust her?

I knew her. The person who put me to bed every night. Who read by the fire and baked and played soft piano music. The person who peeked into my room at all hours of the night to watch me sleep. The person who brewed tea and watched me bike up and down the street from the kitchen window. That was the person I knew.

I didn’t know her skeletons. The little girl in the picture. The young man who held my cousin and broke her trust. I didn’t know the person who liked to travel, who could fathom adventure beyond her routine.

I knew her. I loved her. But perhaps trust is something that only dwells in bones too far buried in the dust of closets past. Perhaps the difference between knowing and trusting is the difference between the skeletons of a body, and the flesh it lays to rest. Acetone Allison

Rafert