Showing posts with label lonliness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lonliness. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
She found her peace
Sitting by the window, she’d seen it all. Rain, in its near unending forms, could come at any time in Oregon. The annual dusting of snow could produce a bitter blizzard, just once or twice a decade. Without warning, fog was an early morning surprise as it drifted over the ground. Those dismal gray days replicated for weeks on end. But there was an occasional bright sunny summer day too. In the evenings, the moon shined bright as it danced through its phases, creating its own calendar. She knew her place and found her peace in sitting and watching in silence.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Momma kept staring (part V of V)
V
“We’ll go see her soon. In a couple of days.” Aunt Heather was strong and her words convincing. We finally walked inside the house and I noticed Jack sitting at the entrance to the kitchen, not moving or not speaking. I guess he’d been there all along.
The three of us sat at the table for dinner that evening. Jack, my aunt, and me. Dad didn’t come home that night, or any other night. Aunt Heather tried to explain, but it didn’t make much sense to us.
The days drifted into weeks and we didn’t see Momma. Aunt Heather kept saying, “She’s not quite ready yet.”
One night at dinner, Aunt Heather told us we were going to her house. She had things she needed to do at her place; she had a job and they needed her back, and Momma wasn’t getting better anytime soon.
My mind raced. She was talking about moving, not just visiting. Leaving my home, my friends, my school, and my parents. Well, leaving Momma, at least; by then, we had figured out that Daddy had left us all. I loved Aunt Heather, but this was home and I needed to be here. I’d never lived anywhere else and I had never thought of leaving.
I begged, pleaded, and bargained. I told Aunt Heather she could move into our house. She could have our room. We’d sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed. We’d be good, work hard. Her friends would come and visit. She could find a job here. She listened, even cried along with me at times. Held me a lot. Nothing worked. By the weekend, we were packed and gone.
“We’ll go see her soon. In a couple of days.” Aunt Heather was strong and her words convincing. We finally walked inside the house and I noticed Jack sitting at the entrance to the kitchen, not moving or not speaking. I guess he’d been there all along.
The three of us sat at the table for dinner that evening. Jack, my aunt, and me. Dad didn’t come home that night, or any other night. Aunt Heather tried to explain, but it didn’t make much sense to us.
The days drifted into weeks and we didn’t see Momma. Aunt Heather kept saying, “She’s not quite ready yet.”
One night at dinner, Aunt Heather told us we were going to her house. She had things she needed to do at her place; she had a job and they needed her back, and Momma wasn’t getting better anytime soon.
My mind raced. She was talking about moving, not just visiting. Leaving my home, my friends, my school, and my parents. Well, leaving Momma, at least; by then, we had figured out that Daddy had left us all. I loved Aunt Heather, but this was home and I needed to be here. I’d never lived anywhere else and I had never thought of leaving.
I begged, pleaded, and bargained. I told Aunt Heather she could move into our house. She could have our room. We’d sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed. We’d be good, work hard. Her friends would come and visit. She could find a job here. She listened, even cried along with me at times. Held me a lot. Nothing worked. By the weekend, we were packed and gone.
Momma kept staring (part IV of V)
IV
A few weeks later, I came home for dinner to an ambulance in the driveway. I feared Momma might be dead, and for a split-second, I wanted to run. I didn’t know where I’d go; I was just afraid to find out what was happening inside. But the door was open and I could see people in the living room—they looked like firemen—at the couch, talking to Momma. I started to walk toward the door, but Aunt Heather saw me and quickly gathered me on the porch, so I couldn’t hear or see what was happening inside.
“Your momma’s sick,” she explained again. “She needs more help than I can give. She’s going to the hospital.”
“What’s wrong? Does she need an operation?” Momma had told me that people went to hospitals for surgery and to die.
“It’s not like that. She doesn’t need an operation. It’s like I told you with the soldiers.” I could see she was struggling to find words to help me. She finally put her right hand to her chest. “It’s her heart. She’s sad. But not a regular sad. This is a sad that won’t go away. It’s so big she can’t feel anything else. There are doctors that can try to help her at the hospital.”
The ambulance drivers had moved my mom to a stretcher, and they were coming our way. Her eyes were beyond the stare. Her eyes were almost totally empty. I could tell she didn’t see me. I didn’t know if I should say something, or try to touch her. She was out the door before I could decide.
The ambulance doors slammed and they quickly drove off.
A few weeks later, I came home for dinner to an ambulance in the driveway. I feared Momma might be dead, and for a split-second, I wanted to run. I didn’t know where I’d go; I was just afraid to find out what was happening inside. But the door was open and I could see people in the living room—they looked like firemen—at the couch, talking to Momma. I started to walk toward the door, but Aunt Heather saw me and quickly gathered me on the porch, so I couldn’t hear or see what was happening inside.
“Your momma’s sick,” she explained again. “She needs more help than I can give. She’s going to the hospital.”
“What’s wrong? Does she need an operation?” Momma had told me that people went to hospitals for surgery and to die.
“It’s not like that. She doesn’t need an operation. It’s like I told you with the soldiers.” I could see she was struggling to find words to help me. She finally put her right hand to her chest. “It’s her heart. She’s sad. But not a regular sad. This is a sad that won’t go away. It’s so big she can’t feel anything else. There are doctors that can try to help her at the hospital.”
The ambulance drivers had moved my mom to a stretcher, and they were coming our way. Her eyes were beyond the stare. Her eyes were almost totally empty. I could tell she didn’t see me. I didn’t know if I should say something, or try to touch her. She was out the door before I could decide.
The ambulance doors slammed and they quickly drove off.
Momma kept staring (part III of V)
III
One day after school, my great-aunt Heather was at the house. My mom lying on the couch; she was awake, but she didn’t notice me. Aunt Heather put her index finger to her mouth, nodded for me to be quiet and follow her into the kitchen.
“Your momma’s sick. She needs our help. I’m gonna stay here for a while.” She did her best to comfort me; if anyone ever could, it was her.
Life got better and worse at the same time. Aunt Heather helped us get up and ready for school, she cooked great meals, and she watched TV with us. She’d tell amazing stories about when she was a nurse in the war; in Korea, not the “The Big One.” It had been a few years before I was born and my dad was there too, but they never saw each other. She said she helped soldiers in the hospital, the ones who hadn’t been wounded, “not by bullets, at least,” she added. Jack asked why soldiers were in the hospital if they hadn’t been shot.
Every day after school, I’d still come home to find Momma on the couch. She didn’t say much and it was scary to watch her stare without seeing.
One day after school, my great-aunt Heather was at the house. My mom lying on the couch; she was awake, but she didn’t notice me. Aunt Heather put her index finger to her mouth, nodded for me to be quiet and follow her into the kitchen.
“Your momma’s sick. She needs our help. I’m gonna stay here for a while.” She did her best to comfort me; if anyone ever could, it was her.
Life got better and worse at the same time. Aunt Heather helped us get up and ready for school, she cooked great meals, and she watched TV with us. She’d tell amazing stories about when she was a nurse in the war; in Korea, not the “The Big One.” It had been a few years before I was born and my dad was there too, but they never saw each other. She said she helped soldiers in the hospital, the ones who hadn’t been wounded, “not by bullets, at least,” she added. Jack asked why soldiers were in the hospital if they hadn’t been shot.
Every day after school, I’d still come home to find Momma on the couch. She didn’t say much and it was scary to watch her stare without seeing.
Momma kept staring (part II of V)
II
After school, Mom might still be in bed; sometimes, she sat in the front room, looking out the big window. Looking, but not seeing. Eyes squinted; she’d ask me for a hug and then go back to her staring. Sometimes in the afternoon, a variety show played on the TV, but no one watched it.
After school, I was back out the door and off to find friends, hopefully without my brother tagging along, as soon as I could. When I came in for dinner, she was still in the living room, or maybe already in bed.
Dinner would be a mix of whatever we wanted, as long as we could find it and fix it ourselves. We thought the cooking was fun. Didn’t pay much attention to the cleaning up.
We’d watch TV until the late news came on. Most days, Jack fell asleep next to me. I’d half wake him and guide him to our room. I’d roll him into his bed and climb up to the top bunk. He kept sleeping, but it took a long time for me to fall asleep. I’d wait, listening to hear if Dad came home.
He often did, but really late. And most mornings, he was gone by the time I woke up. Mom said he had two jobs because he loved us so much. A day job, like other kids’ dads, and a night job to help for extra things. He had to work Saturdays, too.
Sunday was the day, if any, that I’d see him. We could watch cartoons all morning, if we didn’t fight over which ones. When he finally got up, he’d read the paper while taking a hot bath. I knew when he’d gotten to the funnies when the laughing started. If he was in a good mood, he’d play with us for a while in the afternoon and make something fancy for dinner. He’d put records on the stereo and turn up the volume while he drank beer and cooked. Mom was all smiles at having her family together. She was still in her bathrobe on the couch.
After school, Mom might still be in bed; sometimes, she sat in the front room, looking out the big window. Looking, but not seeing. Eyes squinted; she’d ask me for a hug and then go back to her staring. Sometimes in the afternoon, a variety show played on the TV, but no one watched it.
After school, I was back out the door and off to find friends, hopefully without my brother tagging along, as soon as I could. When I came in for dinner, she was still in the living room, or maybe already in bed.
Dinner would be a mix of whatever we wanted, as long as we could find it and fix it ourselves. We thought the cooking was fun. Didn’t pay much attention to the cleaning up.
We’d watch TV until the late news came on. Most days, Jack fell asleep next to me. I’d half wake him and guide him to our room. I’d roll him into his bed and climb up to the top bunk. He kept sleeping, but it took a long time for me to fall asleep. I’d wait, listening to hear if Dad came home.
He often did, but really late. And most mornings, he was gone by the time I woke up. Mom said he had two jobs because he loved us so much. A day job, like other kids’ dads, and a night job to help for extra things. He had to work Saturdays, too.
Sunday was the day, if any, that I’d see him. We could watch cartoons all morning, if we didn’t fight over which ones. When he finally got up, he’d read the paper while taking a hot bath. I knew when he’d gotten to the funnies when the laughing started. If he was in a good mood, he’d play with us for a while in the afternoon and make something fancy for dinner. He’d put records on the stereo and turn up the volume while he drank beer and cooked. Mom was all smiles at having her family together. She was still in her bathrobe on the couch.
Momma kept staring (part I of V)
I
Most days, Mom would be in bed when we left for school. Or, at least, when we tried to leave for school.
In the morning, I’d listen to the sound of my favorite cartoons from the living room as I made toast and hot chocolate. I’d smell the steam, then dip the corner of the bread into the hot cup. I’d watch the butter float away, expanding to the edges. I guess it looked like an oil spill, but I loved it. After I’d brush my teeth, I’d rush toward the door, hoping to make it before she could call, “Boys, come back here! I wanna see you before you go!”
My brother Jack and I would grudgingly walk down the long hall to her room. Dust played in the sun beams that peeked through cracks between the drapes. Cigarette butts in the ash tray reminded me that Dad had been there recently, although we had not seen him for days.
We had to sit on her bed as she prepped us for the coming day. I’d fidget, afraid of missing the bus. Afraid of not being with my friends. Afraid of being responsible for my brother. Afraid of missing the bell and being late for class. Afraid of explaining my tardiness to the teacher again, with the whole class listening. I hated being late.
Before we could go, we’d all hold hands and pray, finishing with hugs and a kiss. I’d bolt for the door, jump off the porch and race across the yard, looking around the corner to see if the other kids were still waiting for the bus. My brother would call after for me to slow down. No kids in sight meant that the bus had come and gone. We’d start walking.
Most days, Mom would be in bed when we left for school. Or, at least, when we tried to leave for school.
In the morning, I’d listen to the sound of my favorite cartoons from the living room as I made toast and hot chocolate. I’d smell the steam, then dip the corner of the bread into the hot cup. I’d watch the butter float away, expanding to the edges. I guess it looked like an oil spill, but I loved it. After I’d brush my teeth, I’d rush toward the door, hoping to make it before she could call, “Boys, come back here! I wanna see you before you go!”
My brother Jack and I would grudgingly walk down the long hall to her room. Dust played in the sun beams that peeked through cracks between the drapes. Cigarette butts in the ash tray reminded me that Dad had been there recently, although we had not seen him for days.
We had to sit on her bed as she prepped us for the coming day. I’d fidget, afraid of missing the bus. Afraid of not being with my friends. Afraid of being responsible for my brother. Afraid of missing the bell and being late for class. Afraid of explaining my tardiness to the teacher again, with the whole class listening. I hated being late.
Before we could go, we’d all hold hands and pray, finishing with hugs and a kiss. I’d bolt for the door, jump off the porch and race across the yard, looking around the corner to see if the other kids were still waiting for the bus. My brother would call after for me to slow down. No kids in sight meant that the bus had come and gone. We’d start walking.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
He Didn't Care
She took the kids, left a note. “Don’t call… I filed… get a lawyer…” He read it four, maybe five times.
Went online, “local attorneys.” Started calling, too late, all closed. Hesitated, phoned his folks, mom answered. He almost hung up. She invited him for dinner saying, “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” Probably not, he thought.
Rummaged the freezer. Stuck something in the microwave. Turned on ESPN. Burned the hell out of the roof of his mouth. Tossed the empty container in the trash.
Couldn’t sleep. Went driving. By midnight he was lost, within an hour he didn’t care.
Went online, “local attorneys.” Started calling, too late, all closed. Hesitated, phoned his folks, mom answered. He almost hung up. She invited him for dinner saying, “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” Probably not, he thought.
Rummaged the freezer. Stuck something in the microwave. Turned on ESPN. Burned the hell out of the roof of his mouth. Tossed the empty container in the trash.
Couldn’t sleep. Went driving. By midnight he was lost, within an hour he didn’t care.
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