Mother, you stared for ten minutes at each picture of each grandchild and the day passed and you were happy.
In your grandchild picture, you wear curly blond, soon to be auburn, ringlets like a crown, and a frilly dress that just hangs from your tall popsicle body. You can still hear your mother yelling, "eat, eat!"
Those long legs created a long gate and quite a stride, which helped you traverse the other side of the tracks. Your arms like armour, carried books. You loved your books and I believe they loved you back.
I can feel the ocean in my chest when imagining your childhood. Your mother strived for "a normal life," to soothe the chaos born within. She married for love and he did love her and they created you and then your brother. He calmed her restlessness and coaxed her to sit in their very own garden. She watched him throw a ball to your brother and teach you to swim. You gave him a hero's cuddle during story time and then he said good night.
You still wore frilly dresses when your hero died. At night, you waited with a book but no one came. You listened to your mother's loud cries and bottles dropping until you didn't. Books, like a gentle hand, led your attention away. Your brother listened, until you led him outside to play. When your mother finally emerged, it was to find a job. She left you to care for him in a new home that always seemed dusty and made your brother struggle to breathe. You cleaned the house and him, fed him, clothed him, consoled him and also punished him. You played the little mommy and he held on tight.
I remember taking my oldest skating. I worried about her falling on unforgiving ice. I worried about the cold sting inside tiny cuts. I worried about others pushing her. I wondered if she would get bored or fed up in the first 5 minutes, reverting to a not so bad plan B of hot chocolate with marshmallows. But, her intense stare surprised me. We entered the rink and all else fell away. She created a plan. I would get her to the rink and around it, until she could hold herself up on the rails. She patiently clunked behind people till she could glide and then she glided past them. She fell a few times and I rushed to her, but she got back up before I arrived. She focussed forward on her mission. She didn't feel the bumps or bruises form. She didn't notice those who fell or raced around her, she only looked at her next step, her next glide. She didn't want a break, she was fierce and I was proud. I just watched her, loved her and cheered her on. By the end of the 90 minutes she was skating and smiling and looking at me again, I existed again and we smiled and skated round together. A little bit of me stopped worrying about her after that. I knew that she would be ok.
That is how I envisioned your childhood, Mom. After your father died, you began your survival quest. Your quest for normality. I remember your intensive stare where the periphery fell away and only what stood in front of you mattered. I think that this must have served you well. I think the world would have been too cruel and daunting to endure your full attention,
You fought monsters. You held your books like a shield, your eyes intense, focussing forward. It worked. It buffered that teacher who mocked your side of the tracks, refusing to give you stickers or place your name on the happy side of the board. It muffled her resentment that a girl unworthy took up space. You faced forward as you walked home alone, without playdates, covered with rumours that you might infect the other girls. You held your books tighter as you waved to the nice lady living next door. She asked you how school was, while a new man slipped by her and waited. You worried for her children, who knew how long they would need to play so they could eat. Your cupboards housed only a few potatoes and you held them in your hand, you wondered about dinner. You called out to family and showed them, asking for help, but your mother shut back the door and said the potatoes would suffice. Your stomach ached, heightened by your brother's cries. You told him you must leave him to study.
Your books led you through school to university, to science, not an easy goal for a woman in the 50's. You held your books tightly, as your brother called you back when he took too many pills, or when your boyfriend told you he would only care for you if you would just lay down your books. You refused and he wished you well.
You did crave the normality, glanced at it through other's windows. It grew in my father's house, which you stepped into. You hid large marks smeared across your forehead and back that read damaged. His attention pulled towards your eyes, your strength, your intelligence, all ironically fertilised by that which inflicted the wounds. He gave you a little cart to carry your books and you decided to love him. Together, you bought and filled a home creating your own normal silhouettes to be displayed in your windows. Your mother and brother smiled to my father and then tilted their heads to you, reminding you that your damage could not wash off and that they did not wash off. That you could move away but you were still with them.
I suspect you thought yourself contagious to us, so you kept your distance. You would not sacrifice us. You let us know that the world was cruel but you would protect us with shelter and food and love. Warriors can't do much else. You did your drills and watched on as my father carried out the life you hoped for but couldn't grasp.
When my hero died, you wanted to run and you asked me to run with you, 9,000 miles in six weeks, two women and a pop up tent. We really didn't know much about each other except that we both loved the music from Les Miserable. It played again and again and we learned all the words. However, before we learned the words it was the background of our many fights. You see you had raised a warrior in your image. You had no books to shield you only the endless hours of a Canadian summer day. And when we were finally tired of our war, we put our swords down and breathed. You sang, "Master of the house? Isn't worth my spit! Comforter, philosopher and lifelong shit!" I laughed and you looked at me and laughed and I sang, "Everybody raise a glass, raise it up the master's arse!" and for the first time we played. The warrior took a rest and allowed the little girl who no longer wore the frilly dress to play. We lived on tortillas and cheese, dipped in salsa, walked up mountains, jumped in puddles, drank hot chocolate and watched a million stars float across the sky. I watched the girl who was trapped in a city, plagued by missions, let go and spread out in the long grass next to me. You let go of your weights and danced to country music, spoke to strangers and breathed in clean air.
You sang the "fuck you song" to a naughty trucker, who blocked your path. I watched, mouth open, slouched behind the car's dashboard. In awe, I found myself mouthing the words, "Fuck you and you and you and you and you," sung to the tune of So Long, Farewell. You swaggered by him, hips wiggling as fingers from both hands danced around his stunned face, and a sweeter smile could not be found on anyone. You enjoyed that moment. We later sang it together when recounting those who smeared our backs and foreheads and you would teach it to my children as I put my head in my hands to hide my smile. We proudly sat as Thelma and Louis finding freedom on an endless road.
However, that trip eventually ended and life came back into play and sadly some demons pushed old defences up again and soon miles separated us even more. Although, you always took pleasure in retelling the stories of our odyssey and I always loved listening. In those moments, we sat side by side, giggling at our misadventures, our tortilla diet and our honest friendship.
You always wanted me to write about that trip and I always said I would. Now, I don't think you can remember much of that trip, ageing can be cruel. Oddly, that which erases parts of your life also allows you to put down your warrior shield. Over zoom, you tell me you miss me, you love me, giving me virtual hugs, at your request, I shut my eyes and feel the warmth you give. I see the little girl waiting with her book but I also now see the mother who answers her lonely daughter's calls.
Mother, you stared for ten minutes at each picture of each grandchild and the day passed and you were happy. I know how important it is that you never forget their faces. Like the little girl focussing forward with her intense stare, you just need to take the next step.
