I think of Mummy before she was consumed by her illness as being akin to the angel, Lucifer; or at least, as much as I have garnered of him from the Netflix tv show. Mummy was perfect; trustworthy, astute, and so beloved, she was the epicentre of our world. Like Lucifer, she was a wonderful angel; until that day when, like Lucifer, she fell from grace and descended into the bowels of a hell of her own making.

I loved pre-illness Mummy so much, our Before Mummy. Though post-illness Mummy is nothing to sneeze at, I can feel that she is holding herself back from us. She doesn’t give of herself as freely as she once did; we aren’t the epicentre of her world anymore. Every now and again, Mummy will go downstairs and close the door, like she used to do, when she was sick; closing us out and sealing herself in, to be alone. Though Walker and I both scratch desperately at the door, she won’t let us in. She tells us to stop scratching the door, to go upstairs and to leave her alone.

She never used to be this way. We were never apart, in the Before Times. We went every with Before Mummy, spending every moment with her, trailing behind her even when she went to the bathroom. But After Mummy shuts us out, both physically, through that goddamn basement door, and emotionally, when she has simply had more than she can take for one day and the shutters slam shut over her eyes.

I wonder what it was, exactly, that killed the angel that was our Before Mummy?