my tears ricochet

                                    

                                          
wrote this back in august 
can you believe it 
Sydney 
"So Sydney, do you think writing about it could help? Has it helped, recently?" Evangeline asked, sipping her warm hazelnut latte. I picked up drinks for us on my way.
"Maybe, I've never written about her. Our relationship has been so strained, I've just been angry. I never thought to turn that into anything." I replied fiddling with my cashmere jumper. 
It had a huge hole in the sleeve due to its age. My dad had bought it on a work trip when I was young and I got it after he passed. I wore it most when I needed comfort. 
"I think you've answered my question. I think writing music is such a big and beautiful part of your life. Take the anger, the hurt, that your mother has caused you and turn it into something positive or something painful. Writing can open up a lot of doors you've shut."  
I nodded, memories of my mother flashing through my mind. Recent memories, times when my father passed, when I was a child. 
"Thank you Evangeline. Is it okay if I cut today short?" I quickly asked, grabbing my bag and coffee. 
"Of course Sydney, I would never want to stop creativity." She smiled, as I nodded and headed for the door. 
One moment I couldn't get out of my head was the last time I saw my mother, before I left for Paris and before I saw Harry in New York. 
I walked through the restaurant to a quiet corner where my mother was sat, glancing at the menu. The sun from the late afternoon was shining on our table. 
She was wearing a white linen shirt and grey trousers, paired with her Loubitons. I could see she was wearing the ring I bought her for her 40th birthday. It was a simple silver band with small diamonds around it. I hadn't seen it in years. 
"Bonjour Maman." I quietly said, causing her to look up and catch my eye. 
One of the few things I had from my mother was our eyes. Striking blue eyes. My mothers eyes always felt cold though, whereas mine were full of light. I wondered if there was any light left in my mother. 
"Bonjour Sydney." She quickly spoke in French, her accent slipping back.
Maybe it was New York that caused my mother such distress. In another life I wished she had stayed in France, married a rich man from Paris and lived happily in the countryside. I knew deep down that's what she would've preferred if she had chosen how her life had gone now. 
"Comment ça va?" I replied, picking up the menu at my seat. 
"Mhm, bien. J'ai quelque chose à te dire," She muttered, calling over the waiter. "Hi, a glass of Saviot Blanc for me and a sparkling water for my daughter." She easily switched back to her Brit/American costal accent. 
"What mother? What do you have do tell me? Why am I here." I huffed, like a grumpy child. 
I wanted to go home and crawl into bed and cry, just as I had done for the last two weeks. I wanted to hide from the world, hide from everyone that knew I had been dumped. 
"I've sold the London apartment." She said, her face not moving. She kept her gaze on her menu. 
I didn't say anything for a few seconds, unable to reply or understand what she had just said. My mind was a blur.
"You...you...what? Why?" I forced my words out, still in shock and confusion. 
"You didn't listen to me when I told you to stop seeing that boy and to keep your name out the press. I'd already told you this would happen but you failed to listen, so, it's sold." She didn't look at me once.