The evening was young, yet the sky was raven black. The pale, scarred moon hung in the sky like an enormous ornament, drawing attention from the eye like my mother used to draw blood from her skin. A soft snow had fallen hours before, leaving a fragile blanket of dust over the solid Vermont floor. I looked from my window at the tall pines, huddling together for warmth. They seemed to me to be faithful—root and branch forever standing steady by their kin.
     One of the few fond memories I have of my mother took place on a night very much like this. It was dark, cold, and lonely. I was eight years old; dirty brown tresses crept down my back and my eyes were muddy with curiosity. Like a moth, I was drawn to the light seeping from beneath my mother’s bedroom door. My tiny hand turned the cold, metal doorknob and pushed the door open just a crack. My mother missed very little, and instantly turned her head. She was reluctant, but eventually invited me in. I crawled onto the bed and sat beside her—as near to her as I dared—and pointed to the soft, well-read page her book was open to.
     “I’m reading a poem,” she explained, “a Sylvia Plath poem.”
     Plath, the moonlight making her pale skin glow, the coldness of winter weaving around her—this was a true, classic portrait of my mother.
     “What is it about?”
     Her thin lips spread into a smile. Ever frank, she replied, “About a very evil father. I’ll read it to you if you like.”
     A bedtime story? A shared poem between mother and daughter? A moment of bonding and maternal warmth? (Subject matter be damned!) I tried to harness the excitement bubbling inside of me.
     “Please read it, Mommy.”
     What followed was not a poem, but a cooing song—melodious white noise that carried me briefly from reality. I wasn’t paying any attention to her words, but to the delicate movement of her lips; the light in her eyes as she read; her soft eyelashes; the intense feeling of connection. All I heard were repetitious German words, the sounds of sneezes; the satisfaction that quivered in my mother’s vocal chords. I was no longer her bastard child; her unwanted teen pregnancy—I was her beloved, and she was singing me a lullaby.
     
     “Would you like to get the ornaments out of the garage before it starts snowing again?” My grandmother’s voice came from the kitchen.
     “I already did,” I replied quietly, slowly turning from the window and heading down the hallway, toward her voice.
     “Anne!” She called. “Do you want to get the ornaments?”
     “I did, Grandma,” I said more loudly, walking into the kitchen. She momentarily turned away from the dishes in the sink and smiled at me.
     “That’s my girl. Always thinking ahead. You go and start trimming that tree. Let me know when you need help with the lights. They’re tricky. And turn on the radio—they’re playing carols on 92.9; have been nearly since October for Pete’s sake. Don’t know about you, but I’m finally in the mood to listen now.”
     “Mom…never really liked Christmas music,” I said reflectively. It was more of a redundant whisper to myself than anything else.
     “Sally never liked much of anything,” she replied, smiling sadly.
     “I’m not in much of a mood to decorate the tree right now,” I admitted.
     “That’s okay, Annie. You don’t have to do it right now. You got any homework?”
     I shrugged. “I think I’m going to go out for some fresh air.”
     As I walked out the back door, I could feel her concerned eyes following me. If only she didn’t worry about me so much. If only she understood that the sickness which coursed through her daughter’s veins never found its way into my DNA.

     I put my elbows up on the deck railing, leaning into it for support. A brief gust of wind rustled through the trees, and through my hair. I had recently made the mistake of letting a friend cut it for me; now it was uneven and sloppy—but it was mine.
     A soft flake fell from the sky and, with its last dying breath, kissed my cheek. It melted into a tear and rolled down the side of my face. It was soon followed by its suicidal siblings—all plummeting to the ground, disappearing into a white oblivion.
     I looked down from my perch on the deck, down into the brown grass disappearing beneath the snow. Down at the spot where her body was found so many years ago.
     Blood had left burgundy stains among the white carpet as she stumbled down the stairs, tearing her flesh open with her kitchen knife. She had always wanted to return to the earth—and return she did. Blood poured from her like a quiet stream spills through the countryside. And beside her, on the ground, was “Daddy,” ripped from the binding it once clung to. This image, when my 10-year-old eyes witnessed it, was burned into my brain for eternity. It was more of a haunting nightmare than a reality—a demon that forever roamed the back of my mind.
     Inside I heard my grandmother turn on the radio. The music crawled beneath the crack of the back door and into the night air.  
     I let the flakes collect on my body. My eyelashes were laden with them; the world seemed hazy.
     “…A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices—for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…”
     The pallid moon was at its zenith, peering down at me through the clouds and the snow.