Why Do I Stab My Mother? (1992)

In my nightmare, I ask her to take a walk with me in the black, black night lit only by the moon. We find ourselves at the seaside, and I take her hand and lead her down, down an endless pier that stretches out into the violent ocean. She is so sweet and pleasant, surprised that I want to be with her. Her expression is so innocent. I take her to the end of the pier, and then I take out my long silvery knife, the kind of knife used to fillet fish. I grab her by the wrist, and, although she struggles, she cannot get away from me. I am too strong.

When I was a little girl I worshiped my mother. I was so proud of her when I compared her to other people's mothers at my school. She was the well-spoken one, the beautiful one, like a dove surrounded by crows. Even when we went to the grocery store people noticed how beautiful and kind she was, as if she were Snow White trailing a stream of happy singing flowers. Some nights she would come into my little bedroom to tuck me in before she and my father went to the opera. She was wearing a strapless evening gown and her jewels, her dark hair upswept in a French twist, and as she bent over to kiss me goodnight I could smell her perfume, Chanel No. 5. No, no, no! That is someone else's story that I read in a book, not my own! But still, my own mother was as lovely to me as that.

She gave me tea parties in the front yard with my little minature china tea set that came all the way from Germany. She sewed exquisite dresses with full skirts and sashes and lace for me. At Christmas, even though we were poor, she made sure Santa Claus brought me a doll with eyes that opened and closed. She made me birthday cakes with pink icing. She was always there when I came home from school and my father and she and I went to church every Sunday and she helped me to learn to say my bedtime prayers. She was a saint.

But then, something happened. My father got killed and she had to raise my sister and me by herself. I got tits and she was mad at me most of the time and I didn't know what I had done wrong. She had to work hard to make ends meet. She had to do without. Suddenly she hated all my friends and she wouldn't let me go out with boys. I saw her kissing strange men. My grades were only average, my curfew was 10:00 p.m., I began climbing out my bedroom window so I could have some freedom. I dropped out of college. I became a teenage bride. Nothing I ever did was good enough. She said I could have been someone, she said I threw it all away. Nothing I ever did was good enough. I hated myself for letting her down because I loved her so much. Nothing I ever do is good enough.

In my nightmare, I ask my mother to take a walk with me in the black, black night. We find ourselves at the seaside, and I take my mother's arm and lead her down, down an endless pier that stretches our over the violent ocean. She is so sweet and pleasant, surprised that I want to be with her. She is not as tall as I remember, and I see for the first time that her hair is going white. My heart plunges when I realize that she has gotten older. It hurts me to say it: my mother is old. Her face is glowing, like the moon, her expression is innocent. I take her hand and we walk together out to the end of the pier that stretches into eternity. Then I take out my long silvery knife, the kind of knife used to fillet fish. I grab my mother by the wrist, and although she struggles, she cannot get away from me. I am too strong. I am crying, but I cannot stop now. I stab her again and again although she pleads with me. I stab her even though she begs me not to and tells me that she loves me.

Why do I stab my mother? Why do I stab my mother? Why do I stab