Creative Non-Fiction: Transformed by Brenna Cuba

By Brenna Cuba

They didn’t know it, but the change would be permanent. The kids got so quiet afterward. They hadn’t thought to be quiet before I shed that quaint skin they preferred me in. That’s what changed first: my skin. It became thin and translucent. I hung back against the pale walls of the living room. I thought I could calm down before anything escalated, blend in, go unnoticed.

It was an amazing trick to become invisible. There only to bring the ketchup, clean the juice spills, wash the uniforms. I didn’t recall when I had mastered it, but to go so unnoticed on the precipice of transformation made it clear that I had done so. The illusion was so seamlessly carried out, not a soul could see me as more than furniture. (Something decorative or out of the way like a side table.) But I wasn’t surprised. All mothers were magic. Illusionists, magicians and shapeshifters the lot of us. To the relief of all the world and, frankly, a product of our own stupidity, only a small fraction of a percent tapped into their true power to shift. To be seen. To change from mother to other. 

They didn’t notice the signs of the coming change. I did. How could I not? But like everything else, I shoved them down and acted like they weren’t there. If I had hung on until bedtime, all the signs and urges could’ve faded into the cream-colored walls and disappeared. I could’ve disappeared like I did every night. 

They fought and kicked at each other, pulling hair and screaming. Then the shift accelerated too fast for me to get ahead of it. Even the martini wasn’t strong enough to dampen the speeding change in me. 

Claws erupted from my fingers. I gasped at the pain of these long, black talons ripping through my nails. This they had to notice. But they continued with their petty squabbling, heedless of the fire lurking in me. I asked them to stop. They did not. So I did not. I snarled as my face elongated into a snout. New teeth cut my lower lip. 

They didn’t turn and look. They didn’t see me until my new tail slammed through the coffee table and cracked it in half, sending wood splinters flying. I laughed. After years of buffing out the scratches they made in my table, I was the one to break it. My laugh came out as fire and sent a shower of sparks over all of them. I admired the scorch marks on the ceiling and a rumble of satisfaction reverberated in my chest when I smelled the smoke. 

They ducked. They stared. They tiptoed around me and actually looked into my eyes, which could now see with a sharpness that left nothing unnoticed. 

“Mommy?” My youngest asked in her tiniest voice. She looked wide-eyed at my talons and tail. They all did. They had never seen me before. Not really. 

I never thought I would be one to shift or that I would keep the scales I wore. I couldn’t disappear anymore. They saw. 

They didn’t ask me for much after that, though they could see me plain as day taking up entire rooms refusing to go unseen. I couldn’t say whether it’s the teeth, the tail or the fire they feared most, but they’ve been more independent than ever. They’ve asked if I want to change back, but I won’t. I’m too big to fit the skin that once contained me. All I have thought in the aftermath is that I should have become a dragon sooner. 

The real magic of it all came later. It turns out they prefer my scales and want to follow a mother who is present and proud and visible. My daughters are growing into dragons themselves. They’ll never make themselves small to squeeze into a skin that doesn’t fit. Their wings won’t bend, their tails won’t curl, and it would be hazardous to keep the fire inside ALL the time. 

No, instead of shrinking, they will help others. The world could use more of us.