We will begin before the beginning...
I sit alone in my childhood bedroom, under a cream-color quilt, the night already half finished. Jake nibbles first on my elbow, then presses his cold nose into my arm, he's desperate for attention tonight, but I'm much more interested at the words flowing out in front of my long-tired eyes.
They're open because of what I've just witnessed, a thing I hoped I'd never see: my mother crying, my mother in pain.
I think back to all those times I'd endured major surgery, six now counting wisdom tooth removal with only general anesthetic. She would sit there by my side, feeding me Jell-O, crackers, and prescription narcotics. I think even further back to a simpler time.
When I was six we lived in Las Vegas, Nevada. I'd gotten a nasty bug and slept for most of the day causing both my mother, a schoolteacher, and me to miss school. I woke up in late afternoon, the sun getting lazy and starting to droop back down over the horizon. Blueberry muffins were waiting, a dozen of them piled up on a plate sat on the edge of my dresser, waiting for me to wake.
To this day, the thought of blueberry muffins makes me think of how much my mother loves me. It's a good feeling, warm and fuzzy, much like the quilt I'm under now, but it offers nothing of the same feelings.
Mom just went through a rough surgery to help end pain that would not end itself, but now she's hurting in completely different ways. To see her cry, it wrenches at my heart. A child never expects to see its mother cry. It is a powerless feeling, standing there still, praying to your own Gods and a million others, offering the whole of your soul if they will take that pain away so she might have peace enough to sleep a few hours before the sun peeks through the windows at dawn.
My father and I make her as comfortable as possible and I duck away, unsure what the feelings inside might cause me to do. So I sit and pour out words, hoping it will be of some solace.
Jake plays at my feet, attacking them, his tail, and my feet again, then dives off the bed and sits mewing and pawing at the door. The words help, but hope that my prayer will be answered; that the Overseer will grant her a little peace tonight.
And as the flow of words returns to a drip, Jake at my side again purring and staring up at me with expectant eyes, begging for more attention, I realize how fitting that my childhood home should be where my story begins...
They're open because of what I've just witnessed, a thing I hoped I'd never see: my mother crying, my mother in pain.
I think back to all those times I'd endured major surgery, six now counting wisdom tooth removal with only general anesthetic. She would sit there by my side, feeding me Jell-O, crackers, and prescription narcotics. I think even further back to a simpler time.
When I was six we lived in Las Vegas, Nevada. I'd gotten a nasty bug and slept for most of the day causing both my mother, a schoolteacher, and me to miss school. I woke up in late afternoon, the sun getting lazy and starting to droop back down over the horizon. Blueberry muffins were waiting, a dozen of them piled up on a plate sat on the edge of my dresser, waiting for me to wake.
To this day, the thought of blueberry muffins makes me think of how much my mother loves me. It's a good feeling, warm and fuzzy, much like the quilt I'm under now, but it offers nothing of the same feelings.
Mom just went through a rough surgery to help end pain that would not end itself, but now she's hurting in completely different ways. To see her cry, it wrenches at my heart. A child never expects to see its mother cry. It is a powerless feeling, standing there still, praying to your own Gods and a million others, offering the whole of your soul if they will take that pain away so she might have peace enough to sleep a few hours before the sun peeks through the windows at dawn.
My father and I make her as comfortable as possible and I duck away, unsure what the feelings inside might cause me to do. So I sit and pour out words, hoping it will be of some solace.
Jake plays at my feet, attacking them, his tail, and my feet again, then dives off the bed and sits mewing and pawing at the door. The words help, but hope that my prayer will be answered; that the Overseer will grant her a little peace tonight.
And as the flow of words returns to a drip, Jake at my side again purring and staring up at me with expectant eyes, begging for more attention, I realize how fitting that my childhood home should be where my story begins...
posted by Jake at 1:57 AM
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