Oldie but a goodie...........................
I'm lying here with my baby on
Mike and Denise's bed. My boy has been
struggling, fighting sleep for the past hour at his godparent's home. As soon as his head hits the pillow he starts
nudging towards me, fingers tugging and pushing, pawing me like a kitten taken
from his mama too soon, lips anxiously latching onto my breast. This is a bad habit I know I need to break,
like most vices, you know it's no good, but it feels so nice. His eyes begin to roll and flutter, humming
and moaning with the soft pull of sleep.
The smell of fresh baked bread drifts from the kitchen coupled with the
thrills of Denise's laughter as she assists my husband cooking mussels and
clams. Mike's setting the musical tone
of the evening, Italian soundtrack, while the soft clatter of porcelain and
silver signal dinner is nearly ready. I
snuggle closer to Jake, enjoying Denise's indulgence in bedding, corduroy
comforter with 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, the feather mattress
enveloping. The window shares its view
of the cedar elm trees dancing. Trees
amaze me. Grand, lovely trees filled
with the sincerity of a history that cannot be altered by the interpretations
of time. They survive amongst us for
hundreds of years, no matter what the size of the town, the trees continue to
thrive. Maybe not as many as before, but
there are plenty enough for me. They are
like mothers . . . grounded, swaying, strong, never leaving, always growing and
renewing with the seasons of life. I
think of my grandma while I watch one in particular. This tree is powerful and swaying largely with
the wind, way high up in the air, its branches fan the sky brushing the clouds
along their way. My grandma has just
passed through this world, this life, and I'm wondering where she has gone. I'm wondering how long it takes to get there
and who's there with her. I feel her
presence at this moment so real, just there in the highest branches of that
giant old elm. She's so strong now that
she can see me through the tiny window of this comfy room with the rough red
walls. She can see me lying with my son,
giving him my breast and my love. I know
she is smiling at me, happy I have finally found a purpose, a real reason to
quit blowing off life. I think about her
when I see that old elm because it reminds me of my grandparent’s home. The home they had when I was born, the home I
spent many years living, off and on, from time to time. Floods of memories rush me now. I remember her dog, Silver, taking my hand so
gently in his mouth, leading me around the yard to his special places. Her heart broke the first time when he
died. This home where she set my hot
cereal out on the porch, letting it cool just enough for me to eat. I remember her rich, home-cooked meals of
chicken fried steak, green beans, mashed potatoes, iced tea and peach
cobbler. The rusty old dinner bell she
used to ring to let Grandpa and the rest of us know it was suppertime. I could never sleep in any room in that big
old house but theirs. Grandma would put
up a cot for me to sleep in, but I would always end up crawling between them,
waiting for Grandpa to mutter "spoon" then we'd all curl up real
tight. God, I loved them, they were my
home. Grandpa died too early. It tore Grandma's heart up waiting years to
join him. Now I lay here with my son,
wishing I had one more talk with grandma.
I wish she'd follow me into my room one more time to watch me pack,
asking questions about all my clothes, books, jewelry. I wish I could get grumpy one more time so
she would tell me how much I reminded her of Grandpa. I wish I'd hugged her more and how I wish I'd
crawled into bed with her in those later years, snuggling up behind her,
feeling her soft skin smelling of cold cream and the smooth satin of her
gown. I know she needed more hugs than I
thought I could afford. Selfish on my
part, I'd go to visit her when I needed to run away from my own life, not
realizing how precious those moments were.
I always thought I would have one more trip, one more chance. I wish I had listened better when she talked
about her French grandfather, showing up drunk and ornery, full of adventurous
stories, or when she spoke of the early years with Grandpa, running off with
him against her father's wishes. It's
been just over a week since she died and I think to call her everyday, I miss
her so. It was never easy for her to say
goodbye. She would stand on her tiny
front porch, covered with vibrant ceramic roosters and tiny floral shrubs,
waving until she couldn't see me any longer, tears hiding in the distance. I can still see her waving there in the tall
trees above. I try to wave back, hoping
she sees me. Then, looking down, I rub
my face against the soft cheeks of my baby boy, snuggling into his crinkled
neck, sucking in the bitter smell of milk.
I pray to someone that I'll be as good a mother to him as she was a
grandmother to me. I know she'll help as
much as she can. I know she’s nearby,
right here by my side, smoothing down the wrinkles, wiping off the counters,
airing out the rooms. This much I know.
No comments:
Post a Comment