The Mom Tattoo
by Simon A. Smith
You think it’s a nightmare at first, but then she reaches for the high note, and her voice cuts out. There’s a dusty little squeak, like someone put their hands around her throat and strangled, and you are wide awake.
She’s trying to sing your favorite song, Prince’s “Diamonds and Pearls,” and at the same time, in between raspy coughs, she is scolding your son at the breakfast table.
“Don’t use your fingers. Pick up your fork!” she says.
If I could I would give you the wooooorld… (hack hack).
“It’s right there. The fork. Use it!”
Your fingers curl into fists. It comes over you, a reflex. Perhaps you are engaged in a dream brawl. You don’t even know if this is happening. How could she be singing that song? What are the chances? At this hour? You can’t recall telling her...
It has been your favorite song for decades, even before you became a drummer in the jazz band that you still play with professionally. You’ve been a full-time musician for almost twenty years, and your mom has been to exactly two shows, which infuriates you only when she repeats the story about her friend from high school, Alicia, who plays the guitar.
“She’s a real musician,” she tells you again for the sixth or seventh time. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she says. “She has her own band and everything. A real composer, you know, the kind who thinks about music all the time. Can’t get it off her mind. A true artiste,” she says, emphasizing the final syllable like some kind of French chef.
It is Christmas Eve, and she is in your apartment. Must have flown in early. You are not asleep. This is her warped gift to you. You will struggle to tell your friends later precisely how she needles you into belligerence. You’ll compare her to a scalpel and then a swarm of wasps, and then… you can’t put it into words.
Would you be a happy boy or a giiiiiirl… (hack hack).
She is reprimanding your son in the same way she still hounds you about things like crooked wall art and soiled cookware, and she is dismembering your favorite song. It’s an absurd kind of surgery. She has it lying on an operating table. The chest is cracked open. She’s removing the heart. And you think to yourself, this is it, this is the last time this will ever be your favorite song. So long, Purple One. Farewell to your exquisite 17-note descending melody. Thanks for the memories. You won’t be able to shake this mutilation. It seems so extreme, and yet… You are not dreaming. This is it, the thing. It’s just… there. It… can’t be defined but also can’t be denied. It took an invasive procedure to position it just so, and it would be an equal feat to remove it. It’s ubiquitous. Is that the right word? What does that even mean? It’s…
But all I can do is offer you my love…
It’s permanent.
Simon A. Smith teaches English to high schoolers. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, PANK, Whiskey Island, and Chicago Public Radio. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer, and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Chicago with his wife and son. Find him here: https://www.simonasmith.com/