Laying in my old bunk bed in the dark, the slightest of light coming from my cracked bedroom door.
I had finally fallen off the bars, I guess you could call them monkey bars but they were always more serious to me; after so much practice I had fallen hard. I don’t remember anything after the jump, I had called it Superman. I only remember the moment when I woke in my room. I could hear her doing the dishes or something, she was always keeping busy.
I love this memory. .the memory of being taken care of by her.
Fast forward to 38 years old. Contemplating children of my own, remembering this memory for the 100th time as I do now that she has passed. Last night, this time, I tried a new exercise. I laid in bed, I pictured getting out of bed, seeing my legs dangle and a kitty purred past them for good measure. I got up and walked down the hall. It has been so long since I’ve pictured that house but I did and cried as I recalled the paintings and which room I was walking past and even what my mother used to look like in that kitchen. She had her back to me, and yes doing the dishes, I walk towards her and hug her, again not as my older self but as the 6 year old who fell and had almost died. I hugged her so hard and cried to myself in my pillow harder than I’ve cried in a long time. Pete lay sleeping next to me, completely unaware. Perhaps it was a closure of sorts but even now I am crying writing this as it was certainly an exercise of my emotions, one I’ve never tried. After which I think I understand my resistance, how could I bring a child into this world, granted they could hate me but if we have a relationship like the one I had with my Mom, leaving them behind to feel as I feel now? I think there’s something there…or perhaps it’s just not the right time..
-B
