Celestia XVII

by brokenimage321

Fragment: Mother

[The memory is indistinct and incomplete, like a photograph reflected in a soap bubble.]

I am [...?] years old. I am at the Gala. My dress is pretty, but it’s also so [...?]. I hate it. And my shoes hurt, too.

I like the Gala. That’s when Mommy carries me in her arms, or holds me by the hoof the whole night. I like it a lot.

But this is not the Gala. Mommy said it was, but it’s not. Mommy said I am old enough to go on my own. Mommy said she won’t carry me, or hold me by the hoof. I am a big girl now, and must act like a big girl.

I do not want to be a big girl anymore.

[I am alone. And I am scared. Why am I alone? Have I slipped my caretaker for the evening?]

I like the ballroom. It is big and empty, and it echoes when I shout my name. But now it’s different. Now it’s all [...?], and I can’t see anything except legs and skirts.

I do not want to be here. I want to be back in my room, with [...?].

I walk between legs, as [...?] as trees. I try not to cry. My ballroom, so [...?] this morning, is now [...?].

And then—

[And then—]

Mommy comes.

Mommy picks me up, and she snuggles me. She smells like Mommy, but she smells like doctors, too. Like—

[Like talc and latex and ammonia. Hospital smells. I thought that most of her surgeries happened when I was older, but, perhaps…?]

Mommy breathes. I hear the wind moving in and out of her. She says something, and I feel the sound of her voice through her chest. I look up at her. She sounds happy, but sad, too.

[There is... a hole in my memory, wherever my mother is. Whenever I see her face, I see her stained-glass portrait, not the living pony; whenever she speaks, I hear the shape of her voice, but not her actual words. I… remember her picking me up, trying to reassure me, but I remember it like an incident in a storybook: it happened, of course, but it didn’t happen to me—it happened to someone far away, someone that might not even exist.]

[My memories of mother are almost like music playing behind a locked door: something beautiful and transcendent is happening just beyond, and I could join in, too, if only I could remember how to open it… but, no matter how hard I search, it seems I can no longer find the key.]

[I feel… cheated, somehow, unable to remember anything about the pony I loved most. That… that hurts a lot more than I think it should.]

Mommy holds me tight, and I snuggle up to her again. She walks, bouncing me in her arm as she moves. She sits, and sets me down next to her. I snuggle up into her lap. She strokes my mane and talks to me again.

She gives me cake. Before, she told me no more dessert. But when I’m there with her, she gives me cake. So I eat it.

She strokes my mane. She talks some more. Her words make me feel all [...?] inside. I snuggle up closer to her.

When I am done with the cake, she wipes my mouth, then picks me up and hugs me tight. And she talks again.

[And this time—this one, lonely memory—I understand. Her voice turns from meaningless sound into words, words that are still burned into my memory. I have about eight more years with her, but these are the only words of hers that I can recall:]

“That’s my Cece,” Mommy says. “That’s my little filly. You’re going to have to grow up someday—maybe someday soon—but don’t forget this moment. Don’t forget what it’s like to need someone, and to have that someone come to help you. And,” she adds, “don’t forget me.”

She holds me for a while. Then, she puts me down, and pats me on the bottom, and tells me to run along and [...?].

I want to stay, but I know I can’t. But that short time with her has made me feel better. Made me feel not so scared, not so alone. So, I go back into the sea of ponies again.

[In the years since that night, I’ve done a lot of things, Mom. Most of them, I think you would be ashamed of. Some might even make you proud. But, despite what you said, despite what you asked me to do, this, the first time I really needed you… now, you’re almost like a bad dream to me—everything gone but the worst parts of you. I’ve forgotten almost everything you were—I can’t even remember your smile, or the way it felt when you held me. But one thing I have never let go of—one thing I have never forgotten—is this moment.]

[True, it’s only half there—and only when I can force myself to remember it—but those words, that feeling, sunk into my heart deeper than you could ever know.]

[In fact, in some ways, you could say that those words became my guiding star.]

[Or, if you prefer, my golden sunbeam.]

[Just like the one on my flank.]

Author's Note:

Special thanks to Level Dasher, who was kind enough to do some late-night, last-minute typo patrol for this chapter.

Comments

[Titan Commander Sebaste]

I really feel for Celestia right now... Losing a family member is always upsetting...

[Level Dasher]

You're very welcome. Looks like this had the effect you wanted.
Now to go to the next one and read what I didn't see.

[Comickook]

Majorly emotional flashback chapter. Yeah, definitely feeling bad for Celly here. Indeed, trying desperately to recall a loved one and only partially succeeding has to be one of the most frustrating things in the world (not THE most frustrating, but still definitely up there).

[lordhufflepuff]

The part where she couldn't remember her face really struck a chord with me. when I was 7 my dad went on a 13 month long deployment to Iraq and I remember sometime like, a little over halfway through I tried to remember what my dad looked like and I couldn't. All I could remember was his haircut (high and tight just like everyone else) and his uniform. I just kinda broke down in the middle of our apartment for no apparent reason, lucky he came back but for a few months a couldn't think about my dad without tearing up because I couldn't remember what his face was like.

[Slender_Pony]

This hit me in the feels, it reminded me of how i couldnt remember my father in the slightest, except for the smell of cigarettes, everytime i smelled a cigarette i felt like i was going to cry, qnd thats how it was from when i was around four until i was twelve

[Luna Aeterna Solutae]

I have a very particular block on memories before I was around eighteen or nineteen. All that happened to someone else who is not who I am today. Looking over those memories is like going through a stack of photographs in a shoebox, and some of them stick together.

It takes small effort to really remember my father as he was, and like Cece I still can barely pick his voice out, rather than when I saw him last deceased in a hospital bed. Thank you for this.

[PresentPerfect]

And,” she adds, “don’t forget me.”

This should be illegal. ;_;

[Sylica telca]

Awww