![]() She spoke carefully and authoritatively without a hint of a smile in her voice. In the throne, a stranger took over her body-her voice boomed, her back was ramrod straight. Gone was the woman at the center of my world, the soft-spoken mother who would kiss my forehead and hold me on her lap, who would sing me to sleep every night. I watched it transform her into someone else, someone I didn’t recognize. Every day, I would see my mother sit upon that throne, and I believed that it held her there, its obsidian fingers digging into her skin. I remember the bonedeep certainty that touching it would burn. It was a terrifying thing to behold: tall and shadowy black, sharp-edged, carved to look like dark flames. I SPENT MUCH OF MY FIRST six years afraid of my mother’s throne the way most children are afraid of monsters lurking under their beds. ![]()
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