Mother Knows Best

Mother knows best. That’s what they always say. But what happens when she doesn’t know best, what then. I am left out in the sea whirling as the currents push me this way and that. I cling to the so-called knowledge that she has like it is my lifevest. Never wear anything that shows your calves in church, never say sorry more than once, and never ever tell your mother she doesn’t know best. Because mother knows best. She knows how the figures in the dark move, and how the wind grabs my arms while I walk alone at night. How I am always listening, how I am always watching as I follow the black cat down the wrong road. My mother thinks she knows best. Knows how to get blood off a white shirt and how to braid my hair just right. I listen to every word and let it hang in the air for just a moment before I bat it away. Because blood is meant to stain and my hair should never be tamed. I take wrong turn after wrong turn until I end up in a sketchy neighborhood on the wrong side of town and the cat is nowhere to be found. My mother has to know best. Knows when my father has had too much to drink and knows when I sneak out at night. Knows that men don’t like hearing the word no from a pretty girl after their third drink and how to run fast in heels. My mother has been forced to know best, because she is keeping me from having to know too.