I am my mother's therapist. If you grieve long enough, and hard, you'll soon understand that underneath pain is a door that stays closed until we turn the knob. This is why people grieve at funerals. This is why people don't. For others, the door stays locked for years. And for others- like my mother- the sorrow takes over, the door breaks and disappears under the weight. Now no one can show me pain greater than what I see in my mother's eyes. She wears it so well, almost as though it belongs with, and inside of her.I, myself, am numbness. I like to believe I have no doors because I have nothing to keep and nothing to lose. You think you're cutting me but it's the blunt side of the knife and this body is used to the routine of performance- just like breathing. I inhale and exhale so many times it loses its meaning; until being alive is no longer a miracle but the face of an old lover I wake up to.I have one more session with mother before the end of things. I find her lying naked in the bath tub, her head resting lightly on the cold sink. She looks dead. I can't tell how long she's been there; perhaps for hours. I draw closer. None of this frightens me. I've seen enough of ruins to know that broken things can be collected and made to look whole- even with the cracks. I've also seen enough of fractured wholeness to know none of this lasts for as long as we want.Daughters who are afraid of their mothers must have a good reason because how is it possible to run away from what made you, where you came from, what put a face on your body and invited you to stay?What lies before me is a weakness that doesn't make me strong but only weaker- my mother, with hair plastered on her face, her naked body- buried under water, drowning."Sometimes I imagine the water is waves and it carries me," mother speaks but her eyes remain closed.I say "I know"In my mind, you're drowning and I am never able to save you because to save you, I first have to save myself."Your father, he would always come home and touch my face and eat my food. He would laugh right into my ears" I see her hands move in the water, drawing circles with her fingers.I do not respond to this. I hear silence too can be a weapon so I use it well.She keeps talking and I'm thankful for that. It means I don't have to split her open to see what she's thinking. I can't split anyone open. My hands are already stained with blood from my own wounds. I am the emergency. I am the one who needs to be sewn back to wholeness."Do you think I'm losing my mind?""Yes, Mama, only a little."She finally opens her eyes to look at me. I'm kneeling by the tub, looking into the water- her body not disturbing my view.A smile starts to form at the corners of her mouth. "Look at you... standing there so strong... I raised you well. Come on now, get me out of this place. Grab me a towel. I need to wipe myself dry. I need to be ready for when your father comes"I do not remind her for the fourth time in the day that father is never coming back. We buried him six years ago.I pull her- or rather, she holds on tightly to me and I worry for her - turning me into an anchor when I'm sinking too; to think I'm strong when I can barely stand still. Her skin is soft- so soft I wonder if some of it was washed off under the water. I hold her, fearing her flesh will stick in my hands and her bones will fall out.In the tiny bathroom, we hold each other. If I turn, I'll face the mirror and see what we both look like- together. I do not want to see it and so I stare back into the tub as my mother holds on to me. She doesn't let me go. I feel her body start to shake. She's weeping. She's weeping like a child and I do thirteen things all at once: rub her back - hold her - turn on the lights, grab a towel - hold her - keep my feet firm- hold her - hear my heart shatter on the inside, grab a rope from the farthest place in my mind - hold her - tie a rope around my neck - hold her - climb unto a chair and let go; hold her. All the while whispering repeatedly, "please stay alive, Mama, please stay alive"