She’s Gone

"She wanted me to break it," I said, defending my earlier actions. My father wanted to know why I'd broken a vase.

"Who wanted you to break it?" He asked, his eyes wide with concern.

Of course he was concerned. I was an only child, and my mother ha passed away years ago. I didn't have any friends, and none of our close neighbors were female. There was no "she" that he knew of who could have told me that.

"She wanted me to break it," I repeated, drawing my knees up to my chest.

He seems to be at a loss for words. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. I took a sudden interest in the stitching of my pajama pants.

Finally, he was able to speak. "Who is 'she'?"

"She wanted me-"

"Right," he muttered, interrupting me. "She wanted you to break it."

I stared at him. "Mum."

"Excuse me?" He asked, wanting me to say it again."

"It was Mum. She wanted me to break it."

He thought about that for a moment before sitting next to me on my bed and putting a gentle hand on my knee. "Sweetheart, your mother is gone. She's not coming back."

"But she wanted me to break it," I insisted.

"Your dead mother wanted you to break the vase?" It was more of a rhetorical question, since he scoffed and shook his head immediately after.

I picked at my pajamas. "She told you she thought the vase was ugly, but you bought it anyway. So she told me to break it."

"I just told you that your mother is gone," he sighed, giving up on convincing me otherwise.

Pausing for a moment, I replied, "Then why is she sitting next to you?"