My mother was once a beautiful woman
With long, gleaming black hair
And a kind smile.
She radiated happiness, made it
Seem like nothing more than
A golden glow that enshrouded
Her,
A hostage to the light.

Now,
I don't know how she changed,
Nor do I want to,
But she changed, all right.
Gone were the days of
Baking apple pies in the late fall afternoons,
Singing along to the radio on a road trip to my favorite picnic spot,
Homecooked family dinners served before 8.

Gone were the days of
Laughter and joy,
Of fun and passion.
They were replaced by the
Booze,
The drunken self-pity that seemed to
Swallow her whole,
Fade out any of the good she used to have in her.
She's a woman who's not my mother:
She may walk like her,
She may talk like her,
She may eve look like her,
But she certainly doesn't act like her.

Now,
All I can see when I look
Up at her are those
Cold, dead eyes
That bore into my own as if
They were molten lava
And only can only feel fear,
Feel the sting of her palm right
Before she makes contact,
feel the hot, wet tears that stream
Down my face when no one
Is looking.

My mother was once a beautiful woman.
I wonder where it all went wrong.