Saturday, March 27, 2004
3G
You look at your shoes. You dig into your memory to find precious moments with her, but none appear. You can only recall when you were four years old, home alone with her for the first time. Waking up in your parents' bed to find it is midday, they've left you. Peeking downstairs to see her, this stranger with an eyepatch who is meant to be your grandmother. You feel betrayed by your parents and terrified, captive. You call your father and cry to him down the phone. You pretend to be angry, but you are really afraid. Of her.You push the memory from your mind. She is sick and you are ashamed that you have to dig to find a trace of love. But you are empty, you grasp at nothing. Fourteen years later, you still don't know who she is. You struggle to comprehend what this might mean. The C word. Is it? Isn't it? False alarm or warning? You avoid her face.
You look at your mother and you wonder what hurt must have passed between them that at this moment, they can't even touch each other when both of them need it most. You look at your mother, and you begin to feel. Because you imagine what it would be like to contemplate losing her. The wrenching in your gut that she must have in hers. She puts on a brave face. She laughs. You want to hug her, but she is trying to be strong. So you continue to study your shoes. All you can think of is escape.
Three generations, one room, alone.
# posted at 6:15 pm
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