Reaching

A monologue I wrote, based off of a short sort of "skit" I wrote, or what would be a scene in a play (that has no dialogue).

I always hoped that one day I'd live to be very old. I wanted to have a large family and watch them grow. That dream, however, was crushed years ago.

It's quite strange, witnessing your own funeral. But there was no body to bury; just a headstone. I'm sure my parents searched for a long time. Yet they never looked here, in the Westbrooke Cemetery, on a pedestal in the middle of a lonely old fountain, where my statuesque body stands, forever reaching out for freedom. 

On the outside, I stayed the same. It's the inside that is different. I've had a lot of time to think. I watched my mother age, watched as they put my father into the ground. It's what I haven't seen that kills me. I missed out on growing up and going to school, being a bridesmaid at my younger brother's wedding. All I ever see is death. 

It's a tangible thing almost; a stillness in the air, a fog surrounding everything that could hold beauty and turning it dark. My mother has become trapped in that fog. After over four decades of grieving, her image is no longer that of a loving mother and wife, but a broken woman with nothing left. And here I still am, reaching.

I wish to hold her in my arms once more. I want to see her eyes light up again, for I've all but forgotten what she looks like when she smiles. I want to grow out of this body, forever stuck at five years old, and be free. I know that when that time comes, it won't be enough to fill the void inside me. For a statue, I can't help but feel so... hollow.

Just because I am a statue does not mean I don't remember what it was like to be truly alive and full of energy. What I always remember the most, though I try not to, is that this is not the fate I chose for myself. The statue before me just wanted freedom. But even if I had that opportunity, I know I would never take it. No one should ever be cursed with this life. My freedom isn't worth taking away someone else's. 

So this is where I'll stay, long after my mother stops coming back to lay flowers. I will continue to lose my identity as the weather erodes my stone features and Mother Nature covers my small body in moss. I will be forever reaching long after everyone stops reaching for me.