Password

There are some phone messages I can decipher like I am cute and Mum loves me. It's like an angel brushing down my harsh tangled hair with love, soothing my pigged-out emotional clutter with care. Already, the clutter becomes less. I begin to comprehend my thoughts that usually swim in circles and signs. Though my one hand rests on the delete button, I am unwilling to use it.

Then I get messages I cannot comprehend. Mum sends me a cryptic one in sign language with numericals and a heart that sees darkly. The brush in my hair no longer soothes. It tamps me down, as if love is a code that needs to be cracked. It challenges me to go on some hero's journey to find it - some brush with reality that I need to disentangle. I no longer feel cute for I know I need a password as her message is like one - with alphabets and numerics. I don't have the password. My mind is now a tizzy of circles and signs I no longer comprehend. One hand rests on the delete button for a long moment. My hand moves away, as if of its own.