Are you asking for Mother?
Well, you won’t find her here. You can search all you want.
Go look into her closet that smells of rotten berries and starch.
Raze her bed; raze it off the sickly sweet whiff that permeates from the sheets.
Take a peek inside the kitchen; you won’t witness her breaking that soft loaf of bread,
Her ample behind busying itself around the kitchen, fretting over the crumbs, a sweet song lilting off her luscious lips while her legs tiptoe in a light tread.
You won’t find her here, just like the cops didn’t.
What happened to Mother, you ask?
Oh that’s easy, she ate herself into a tizzy and then dissolved in a whirlpool of pity.
Do you think I am joking, about my own Mother?
Oh, you didn’t see what I saw?
And you didn’t do what Father did?
At first, it was the song that perished on her lips. It died, died in her tongue because she bit it enough to bleed and burn.
As if the tongue was not enough, she bit her lips. Oh no, ‘bit’ is too light a word.
She chewed them, every time a tear fell down. And those days, they fell like rain in a thunderstorm.
Miniscule chunks of pink flesh ran away from her lips every dawn, and there in place they left angry, red marks, like tiny crimes of passion.
What happened after that, you ask?
Well, just like any ravenous creature, Mother moved from her lips to her hands. Big bright red splotches, marking her arms into red polka dotted sleeves.
The house was filled with her droppings; tissue and blood splattered around the place.
I slipped once, twice, thrice and then remained in my room waiting for Mother to finish her bites.
Why didn’t I call Father, you ask?
I did. One night when I found a chunk of Mother’s thigh, roasting at 180 degrees in the oven, I called.
His young bride picked up. In her honey sweet voice she coaxed me to tell her what happened? She asked, if Mother had again gone nuts?
I told her that Mother was eating herself.
She laughed, like a hyena that had just devoured a large batch of Cinnamon donuts.
She laughed so hard, she probably choked on her gelatin lips, and I thought maybe I could bite them, just like Mother did.
“I’ll be sure to tell your Father.” She said and hung up.
That night Mother and I sat together, under a full moon in the sky.
So looked lighter, thinner. Maybe she did eat away all her weight, the one that made Father leave.
We sat together, I laughed, Mother coughed and we enjoyed her thigh steak.
That was a week before Mother completely devoured herself. She left her eyes until the end.
She would tell me that even in her dying bite, she wanted to see her son.
I, sometimes, sat, and watched my Mother eat herself into just the blob of her head.
I think Mother was happy, her gluttony made her delirious, she giggled as she chewed. I grinned with her too.
In the end all that was left of her, was her mouth, with all thirty-two teeth in a perfect line.
How do I know the exact number of teeth, you ask?
Well, after Mother was gone, I ate her mouth and ground her teeth, to make my own version of a toothy pancake.
Why do you laugh, Mister?
Is my story funny to you?
Oh, you can’t believe that Mother ate herself whole?
She did. She ate her body, head to toe.
Why, you ask again?
Because her body was her shame.