bedtime stories

My mother was, still is, the most beautifully optimistic melancholy person I have ever known.I never remember exactly how she smiled, but it must of been the most radiant thing this unforgiving world has ever seen. Nature herself loved the curve of her mouth, the sky opened to her touch. She was love in personification. Every argument, every raised voice could never seem to reach her eyes. She was unnatural, and my father bent to every slight will of this creature. She wasn't made for us, wasn't built for us, wasn't meant for us. It drove her her mad. Ate her insides and hollowed out her eyes. My father died to watch it happen. I could not understand when she began to waste away. I don't think anyone could, not even her. My mother was beautiful, and the most broken thing. She never saw life coming. I cannot see her any differently than how she was in the end. I cannot see anything, but my father crying, bones brilliant in the sun.