Watching My Mom Go Black

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It’s like watching a photograph sit in the sun for too long. First, the sharp details blur. Then the colors bleed into one another. Finally, you’re left with a silhouette—the outline of a person you knew, but the internal map of who she was has been wiped clean. Watching My Mom Go Black

The first thing I noticed was the light—or lack of it. Mom used to keep every curtain thrown wide, said sunlight was God’s cheapest antidepressant. Now the living room felt like a coffin lined in velvet. She stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled like ash. Her hair, once honey-brown, was a sharp black bob. Even her lips had gone dark, painted the color of a bruise. She didn't turn when I dropped my bag. “There’s soup,” she said. Not “hello.” Not “I missed you.” Just soup. That was when I knew: my mother was disappearing into a color, and I was the only one left to watch. Let me know how I can assist you further