Emotional Inheritance
Nyomi
I was dreaming again, but it was not the kind of dream where I flew, kissed, or fell forever. It was a memory that always began the same way—late at night, in my old childhood home.
I must’ve been six.
Old enough to know better.
Still awake when I shouldn’t have been.
But there I was, bare feet on the cool hardwood, tiptoeing out from the hallway shadows, breath held in my throat so it wouldn’t betray me.
My mother sat in her favorite old green rocking chair, the one that groaned just a little on every other rock. Grandma had gotten it for her long ago to use while breastfeeding me.
My mother wasn’t in her usual white blouse and long white skirt this time.
Tonight, she wore a slip dress the color of ripe strawberries with thin straps sliding off her shoulders and the satin hugging every curve. Her legs were bare, smooth and oiled, one tucked under her while the other rocked gently against the hardwood floor.
A black silk robe draped open over her shoulders. The sleeves slipped down a little more each time the chair creaked.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft blue lamp in the corner and the halo of moonlight spilling through the window.
My mother’s face glowed in that light. This was how I realized she’d done her face too—soft blush, glossy lips, lashes curled just enough to catch the lamp light when she blinked.
Her perfume lingered in the air—floral and sweet.
She wasn’t dressed for sleep.
She was dressed to be seen.
Billie Holiday played softly on the record player in the corner. A whisper of vinyl crackled, then that voice—raspy and holy—came out, making the moment more haunting.
The song wasYou’ve Changed. I didn’t know the words then, not really, but I understood the sound of someone trying to hold onto a love that had already slipped through their fingers.
It wasn’t a song you played when you were angry. It was the kind you played when you’d stopped begging and started grieving—when you’d accepted the silence but still dressed up just in case the door opened.
Billie wasn’t accusing him in that song. She was mourning the version of her man that used to look at her with fire in his eyes and touch her with hunger in his hands.
I never liked that song.
Not even when I was older and understood the brilliance of Billie.
She was sick when she recorded the song.
Addicted.
Alone.
Dying.
Haunted.
They say she poured herself into that album like it was the last thing she had to give. And it was. She died less than a year later.Lady in Satinwas her goodbye.
And still—my mother played it all the time. Perhaps, she thought the sadness in Billie’s voice understood her better than anyone else.
My mother sat with her head tilted slightly toward the fogging window, rocking slowly.
