Watching My Mom Go Black [ CERTIFIED ]

Her laugh—once a brass section—turned to charcoal. Brittle. If you touched it, it would crumble into dust.

“Don’t,” she whispered. Her voice was gravel. “The light hurts.” Watching My Mom Go Black

It didn’t happen all at once. Not like a blown fuse or a curtain drop. It was more like a slow-developing photograph, but in reverse: the color draining from the edges, then the middle, until only shadows remained. Her laugh—once a brass section—turned to charcoal

One Tuesday, I found her sitting in the dark living room, blinds drawn. Not crying. Just absorbing . The shadows from the streetlight outside crawled up her arms like vines. I turned on the lamp. “Don’t,” she whispered

Then her eyes went first. The light in them didn't fade; it retreated . Like an animal backing into a cave. She looked at me, but she looked through me, searching for a little girl who no longer existed.