Wall-Paper Roses

The sweet, melancholy notes of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" drifted to my ears as I stepped onto the rickety wooden porch. The front door was wide open, with only a damaged screen serving as barrier. My mother still hadn't lost old habits, it appeared. I pushed aside the screen inner-door with care, hoping not to break it further, and entered the house. The air smelled of old paper and cigarette smoke, but just underneath snuck the scent of cinnamon and cloves. From the foyer, the music was still faint, but appeared to be coming from the floor above.
"Momma?" I called loudly, my voice echoing faintly.
I waited, but there was no answer.
I shrugged to myself, not sure whether to stay or go. I had no real reason to be here in the first place, Momma wouldn't want to come to my wedding. There'd be a bridge tournament going on, a sudden strike of illness or she "just wouldn't feel comfortable not knowing the groom and all". I sighed to myself. No one ever changes, do they? I can remember every dance recital, parent-teacher day, and school play where I anxiously haunted the door; waiting, waiting for my mother to show. Afterwards I would wait outside, until she pulled up in her beaten Chevy, a cig hanging from the side of her mouth and a world-wearing look on her face. Not a word would be said as I got in and the tired vehicle puttered it's way back to our house. It was understood that she wasn't interested in such things, but I still had unfounded hopes like most young children.
I sighed again, and instead of turning to leave, I found my feet carrying me down the hallway to a narrow, maple-wood staircase. The music was louder now, as I drew towards it.
I never really knew my mother, did I? We coexisted as two parallel entities that ran side-by-side yet never crossed. I knew she  woke up at six every morning, I knew she locked herself in her own room at night, playing her classical records or sometimes the Elvis one Daddy gave her. I never knew him, and his only place in my life was the rock-star's voice that wafted through the walls as I feel asleep. I never knew if Momma cried while she listened to it, or if she smiled and pretended to dance with him. Sometimes, I just made believe stories about what went on. On my better days, Momma, alone in front of the mirror, would unravel her clever disguise to reveal a fairytale princess who had been hiding away from a evil lord of some far away land. Other times, when I was feeling less charitable, she would open up her windows and let in the goblins, ghouls and ghosties, and together they'd cackle wildly and toss small children in cauldrons.
The door in front of me still held on to it's peeling salmon-pink paint, a relic of ages when garish was "lavish". I turned the resistant knob and nudged the door with my shoulder, feeling it give and shower little paint flecks in my hair. I ignored them and looked around the room it revealed. A record-player in the corner painfully wheezed out the notes of Momma's favorite Beethoven record, filling the room at a slightly uncomfortable pitch. Weak afternoon sunlight was battling it's way through musty white curtains, and a sea-shell lamp in the corner buzzed lightly as it cast a pitiful fluorescent glow. A pine, four-poster bed with sheets and hangings to match the curtains filled the opposite wall, accompanied by a classic white vanity-table that was cluttered by out-dated cosmetics. A faded persian rug covered the worn pine floor, the only other furniture in the room. I glanced around in interest, barely having seen it even when I lived here. A few water marks stained the ceiling, and on the walls I noted tacky floral wall-paper. Upon closer inspection, The feature of the pattern appeared to be roses, though I thought they more closely resembled pink cabbages.
I picked at a loose corner of the paper.
Why do we even call them roses? If not in wall-paper on would hardly recognize them as such. One sees the same thing over and over, so they know what it is, though it may no longer bear any resemblance to the true article.
My lips curved into a sarcastic smile.
Were my mother and I not the same way? Removed from the over-used ideal of "family", we are nothing but a mistake.

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