The Journey of the Wounded Child

I couldn’t help her climb out of the abyss this time.  It wasn’t that I didn’t try.  The flat-out refusal of help on her part pretty much stopped me in my tracks.

Death is like a Jack In The Box toy.  Life is the springs of the toy and Death is what jumps out when you finish the winding.  Jarring, shocking, unexpected even though you know the Jack In The Box is coming; death is there and the finality of it all is inescapable.

We had been estranged for two years.  She had called me one day to pass along a piece of “news” I did not care to hear.  The person she was gossiping about was already dead to me and I had never met his offspring; why should I want to know about either of them?  But no, she wouldn’t shut up; she simply had to tell me the latest and juiciest piece of information she had gathered from her little circle of informants.  The niece I had never seen was married and living in my town and her married name was…SHUT UP!!!  SHUT UP!!!  DON’T TELL ME THIS.  I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!

Why would any mother want to hurt her child by repeating something that could cause irreparable harm?  I simply couldn’t fathom what was going on in her mind.  It was bad enough that I knew my niece was the spitting image of me when I was in my twenties.  Now I knew she lived in my town.  Did this woman I called Mom not think I would spend my days driving around looking to see if there were any young women who resembled me?  And what was I to do while shopping in the mall — stare at every young woman, wondering if one of them was related to me?  The pain that had just been handed to me casually, like a petit four on a silver platter, was more than I could bear.

Continuing to scream, I threw the phone across the room and fell back onto the couch gasping for air.  I couldn’t breathe.  Her words had stolen every particle of air from my lungs.  How could simple words result in such torturous physical pain?  I couldn’t see; I was blinded by the rush of agonizing memories — the rejection bubbling up to the surface from the box in which I had stored it far back in the very furthest part of my brain.  In an instant I was choking and no Heimlich maneuver would save me.  What I choked on could never be spit out; it had to be swallowed all over again.

Two long years.  I finally wrote a letter to her and patiently explained why what she said hurt me.  She wrote back that she was the one hurt.  I was simply flabbergasted at that response.  Again, what was she thinking?  She gives me devastating news and SHE’S the victim?  I found myself feeling sorry for her.  This woman would never understand the damage her words often caused; she was clueless.

The call came one afternoon; a particularly bad afternoon for me as I was in the midst of a terrible time in my life.  I recognized the voice on the phone as her older brother.  He told me the diagnosis was Stage Four colon cancer and she was going to go through chemotherapy treatment and that her family was there to help her.  Oh, he casually mentioned she didn’t want to talk to me.  Regardless of past traumas and not thinking of past pains caused, I offered my assistance.  I could come out there and help — I had nursed her through her prior bout of cancer even though it almost cost me my job; I would be happy to do so again.  No.  No, that won’t be necessary.  I would be kept informed of her progress but my presence wasn’t necessary.  An old friend of mine from high school who was a nurse was taking care of her.

The audacity of it all blindsided me.  She was dying of cancer and yet I felt like the wounded child all over again.  This nightmare was never going to end.  She would always find a way to punish me and this time she would show me who was boss by not speaking to me nor allowing me to visit until it was too late.

The mean-spiritedness on her part and the tremendous sense of guilt on my part paralyzed me.  Once again I had been reminded that I was the red-headed stepchild and would always remain so.  The rules had been explained; the lines had been drawn; it only remained for me to wait and do as they said.  I was entirely too old for this nonsensical game-playing.  Nonetheless, I found myself sucked into their world again; a world of veiled truths and mindless chatter, of items inconsequential in lives I didn’t know.

I was summoned to her bedside.  It took all the strength I had to simply make the trip, let alone visit this woman I once thought loved me like her own.  As I arrived, I was swept up into embraces of step-uncles expressing words of love for me.  Love is an odd emotion to glibly hand someone you haven’t spoken with in ten years.

What was once an active woman had shrunken to a skeletal frame held together by the ash blonde wig on her bald head.  The voice so often heard spewing hateful words and venomous untruths was hardly recognizable and barely above a whisper.  Only her eyes were crystal clear.  She knew what was ahead of her and she knew her time was drawing near.  She spoke of love and of how good it was to see me.  I told her what she wanted to hear.

Monday morning was one of those rare beautiful summer mornings when the sun rises above the horizon and gently kisses the new day awake.  I basked in that sunshine as I made my way home — to my true home, not this other world where I was just a part of the furniture.  I drove and drove and the further away I got, the more I let go of the pain and the happier I became.  And yet in my happiness there was a tinge of remorse; a feeling of something being lost that was never mine to begin with.  I knew I would always remain the red-headed stepchild but the wound would heal.

What we think is an ending can also be a beginning.

The Old Tea Tin

Pamela rolled over and glanced at the clock on her nightstand.  It was three a.m. and once again she was wide awake.  She lay there watching the menacing red numbers changing with each slowly passing minute.  Three-eighteen, three-nineteen, three-twenty.  Fluffing her pillow, she rolled away from the accusing time display but there was no comfort in that lonely bed.

“I might as well get up,” she thought.  “Lying here is just making it worse.”  Turning on the bedside lamp, Pamela slowly rose from the tangled bedsheets and slid her feet into slightly chewed blue fuzzy slippers.  A reminder of the pet she had loved for so long, Pamela couldn’t bear to part with the mangled shoes.  These were the last remnant of Rascal and she would keep these nasty slippers until they literally fell apart.

Pamela shuffled into the kitchen intent on making a cup of herbal tea to help her get back to sleep.  Opening the pantry door she noticed a large decorative tea tin up on the top shelf.  Taking it down, she carried it to the kitchen table.  This was no ordinary tea tin; Pamela knew it was an accidental repository of memories — memories long stored away, to be re-discovered when needed.  She had found this tin earlier in the week in the farthest reaches of the pantry one day while gathering cans of soup for the upcoming church food drive.  At the time Pamela thought it must hold tea bags way past their prime and was going to throw it out but noticed a rattle when she moved it.  Busy with the food drive collection, she placed the tin back on the uppermost shelf.

Now here it was again and she gently took it down from the shelf and carried it over to the kitchen table.  Opening the tin, Pamela turned it upside down and shook something out onto the table.  It made quite a racket; metallic, and rattled all the way out of the tin.  As the item bounced onto the table, Pamela’s heart skipped a beat.  She became slightly woozy and sank quickly onto a rickety kitchen chair.

The air in the kitchen seemed colder; Pamela instinctively hugged herself and shuddered as she looked at the item on her table.  Staring back at Pamela was a small silver charm bracelet with many charms attached; a remnant of her teenage years.

“My stars, this must be 40 years old,” she remarked to herself although she was alone in the kitchen with no one to hear her comment.  “How did it get into that old tea tin and what is it doing on the pantry shelf?”  Pamela couldn’t for the life of her recall stashing jewelry in her kitchen pantry and momentarily worried she might be exhibiting the signs of the dementia so prevalent in her family.

Herbal tea forgotten, Pamela spread the bracelet out on the table and inspected it.  A bit tarnished, but that was to be expected after all these years stored away in a tea tin.  She counted at least 17 charms and as she ran her fingers over each charm the memories started flooding back.

The bracelet had been a gift from her father.  Pamela remembered bugging him relentlessly to buy her one for her birthday.  All her girlfriends had charm bracelets and Pamela didn’t want to feel left out.  Her father told her it was frivolous and she should quit thinking of jewelry and concern herself with her schoolwork.

On the morning of her 15th birthday, next to her cereal bowl was a black box wrapped up with a red bow.  Pamela gently opened the box and inside nestled in cotton was a sterling silver charm bracelet with one small charm attached.  Her father had recently traveled to California and while there found a small charm that was an orange crate with little oranges in it and on the outside of the crate were the names of various cities in California.  Pamela was so surprised and thrilled.

The next few years as her father continued to travel he would bring her home a new charm for her bracelet.  Pamela would watch as her father got out his soldering kit and soldered a new charm onto her bracelet.

Sitting in her kitchen, she could almost smell her father’s pipe smoke as he would affix new charms to the bracelet.  Pamela picked up the bracelet, now heavy with charms and noticed charms from other states; California, Florida, Pennsylvania, North Carolina.  She saw the small St. Christopher medal her devout Catholic grandmother had given her and smiled at the memory of the gruff old woman always worrying about Pamela’s immortal soul.

Some of the charms Pamela recalled buying for herself during family vacations; the tiny Micky Mouse figurine from Disneyworld and the two different charms from Ocean City, Maryland, her favorite beach hang out.

For her high school graduation, she received a charm with the initials of her high school, WSHS.  After graduation, Pamela traveled and continued adding to her collection of charms; Jamaica, Nassau, New Orleans, a little cruise ship from a trip to Nova Scotia, a covered wagon with a small tag saying Estes Park, Colorado.  There were other charms, too, some Pamela couldn’t remember their story at all.  She found she was rubbing her fingers along the little crate of oranges and smiling.

Pamela wrapped the bracelet in a piece of tissue paper and placed it back in the tea tin.  Using the stepstool, she climbed to the top shelf of the pantry and placed the tea tin behind some boxes.  It would be nice to re-discover it one day in the future and remember happier times again.

Looking at the clock on the stove, Pamela saw it was still early in the morning; only 4:30 a.m.  She put the kettle on for her herbal tea and thought perhaps she might be able to get a little sleep this night after all.

Visitation

There were two visitations; one the evening before and one the day of the funeral.  She attended both; you never knew who you might see at these things.

She found the aroma of lilies cloying.  Funny how all funeral homes smelled like flowers with just the slightest hints of antiseptic and formaldehyde.  Everywhere she walked she was bumping into another spray of lilies or roses; baskets of flowers; flowers on pedestals; even one of those huge wreath displays like you see at the horse races.  There was a tacky black ribbon draped across it.  She read the card attached.  That explained it all; those people had such bad taste.  Good taste or bad, she knew people meant well.

At the evening gathering there seemed to be a continuous line at the guest register and she decided to skip signing the book.  She couldn’t think of anything to say; platitudes weren’t her strong suit.  Most people said the same trite words; “deepest condolences, so sorry for your loss, she’s in a better place, at least she’s out of pain now.”  What a load of crap people came up with when someone died.  On the other hand, she had said some of those same things herself in the past.  It probably had something to do with being uncomfortable with death and having trouble expressing sorrow.  Other peoples’ grief was embarrassing.  It was always difficult to know what words to use.  “If there’s anything I can do to help, please feel free to call me.”  That was one of the worst offenders.

The day of the funeral, while milling about the room, she noticed people she knew but all seemed engrossed in their own stories of the deceased.  “Wasn’t she a sweet person?”  “She had the funniest sense of humor and always made me laugh!”  “Why, she would give you her last dollar if she thought you needed it.”  “Whoever worked on her certainly did a good job; she looks so peaceful in that coffin, don’t you agree?”  “It was so sudden; I feel bad for her husband.”  Everyone seemed appropriately saddened.

She inched her way over towards the casket and peeked in.  Personally, she thought that peaceful look was phony and it looked like the pancake makeup was layered on with a spackling trowel.  That smile – Lordy, that smile was a fake as they come.  Whose idea was it to put her in that awful dress?  Anyone with a lick of sense knew she absolutely hated purple.  Who took her glasses off?  She doesn’t look right without her glasses.  And she never wore her hair that way; the part should have been on the other side.  Honestly, these funeral people really didn’t pay attention to details.  Then again, there wasn’t any family except her husband and he was probably too sad to pay attention to minor details like a hairstyle.  She imagined he was finding this the most difficult time of his life, poor man.

A few hours later, she slipped outside noticing all the little funeral home flags had been placed on the antennas of the cars.  It must be time to head to the cemetery for the graveside service.  She noticed activity at the side of the funeral home.  They must be loading the casket into the hearse.  She saw a few people being ushered into limousines all in their somber black attire.  A tall man with white hair had his arm around the shoulders of the other man she had seen inside; the grieving widower.  It was a painful sight and she couldn’t watch anymore.  She felt like she was intruding on a very private moment in someone else’s grief and in a way she was right.

After all, it was her funeral.

Anna

She awoke to another gorgeous day; a day of puffy white clouds and bursts of sunshine.  Anna dressed quickly, throwing on her jeans and favorite shirt, the one she had pulled out of the bag of rags her mom was keeping.  This shirt had belonged to her dad and it was too big for her, but she loved it so much.

Running through the big kitchen, Anna flew through the back door with her dog, Sam right by her side.  “Anna!” cried her mom.  “Stop slamming that screen door or one of these days…”  Anna paid no attention as she and Sam streaked through the back yard toward the corn fields out beyond the family’s small property.

Anna and Sam could run for hours through the corn fields.  They liked to romp with Anna trying to outrun Sam, but Sam always found her and then he’d knock her to the ground and smother her with big old dog kisses.  Laughing, Anna would get up and she and Sam would start another game of cornstalk hide and seek.

They would play in the fields for hours. Tired and hungry, the two would make their way back to the old battered farmhouse.  Anna’s mom would have supper cooking and the smells of frying chicken and biscuits fresh out of the oven were tantalizing to Anna.  Sam received his usual kibble in a bowl by the door knowing that if he was quiet enough he could sneak to the table and Anna would drop a few morsels on the floor for him.

After supper it was time for homework and sometimes Anna’s mom would play a game with her; Anna loved to play Crazy Eights but often couldn’t keep her eyes open enough to finish a game.  Anna’s mom would lovingly tuck her daughter into bed each night and tell her a wonderful story about knights in shining armor and princesses.

Anna loved her life.  She loved her mama and she adored her dog, Sam.  Life was good and the whole world was Anna’s play toy.  She was one happy little girl.  She went to bed each night and said her prayers and asked God to give her another happy day to play with Sam.

It was a quiet night with normal evening sounds.  No windows were open; the chirping of the crickets silenced by double pane glass.  All that could be heard were the soft footfalls of someone walking down the long hallway.

Two women sat at the table speaking in hushed tones, each with a cup of coffee.  One had a clipboard and some notes and she gazed over at the other woman, “Sometimes I wonder if I can stand one more day.  Today Anna was so frightened because she couldn’t find her dog Sam and she kept asking me where he was.  I didn’t know how to explain to her.”  Putting down her own cup of coffee, her companion remarked, “I understand how you feel.  I’ve worked at this facility for ten years now and it never gets any easier.  The Alzheimer patients are the hardest of all.”  Both nurses returned to their coffee in silence.

The Miracle

Caitlyn rose every morning depressed and sad.  Her body fought her; everything hurt.  She struggled to get out of bed and railed at God for making her go through every day with so much pain and difficulty.  Her life was so unfair.   Caitlin was only 21 years old.  She had hoped to be a Youth Minister by now.  And every morning, through her tears, her mind replayed the day she stopped believing in God; the day God took everything away.

Caitlyn and her brother had been raised by a single mom.  Her mom worked two jobs but still found time for her children. Caitlyn knew it was tough on her mom having to work so hard just to pay the bills and put food on the table. Her mom instilled in them a sense of pride in doing a job well as if you were working for the Lord.  They went to church each Sunday where Caitlyn listened to stories of how Jesus loved her and how merciful and compassionate God was.  Caitlyn was active in the church youth groups and slowly she realized she wanted to spend her life in service to God.  She felt she was being called to minister and she vowed to do better in school in hopes of making it into Seminary.

As an honors student, Caitlyn had her choice of colleges.  The more prestigious universities wooed her with offers.  She was somewhat excited by the lure of the big colleges, but her heart still longed to go to Seminary.  Her pastor wrote a letter of recommendation for her to a Seminary in upstate New York not far from home and the mother and little brother she adored.  She would be able to come home often for visits.

When she received her acceptance notice Caitlyn also got another unexpected present; a full scholarship provided anonymously.  Caitlyn’s mom cried tears of joy and relief, knowing how difficult it would have been to pay for her daughter’s education.  She told her daughter this was a gift from God and Caitlyn should thank God for his infinite goodness and mercy.

The months flew by fast and it was time to drive to the Seminary and get Caitlyn settled in at her dorm.  Caitlyn, her brother and mom all piled into the old family van laden down with a few books, clothes, an old laptop, her iPod, and the cool bedspread set her mom had found at a local thrift shop.  The family happily sang along with the radio as they headed to the Seminary.

Halfway through the intersection, Caitlyn’s mom never saw the driver run the stop sign.  Caitlyn’s mom and brother would never see anything ever again.  Caitlyn woke up in the burn unit of a hospital.  In an instant her life had irrevocably changed.  That sweet face was gone; replaced by something out of a horror film.  Caitlyn prayed and prayed but each day she awoke to the same horror; her family was gone and her life was over.  She would never get to Seminary; she would never minister a Youth Group.  Her God had left her and she was desolate.

She spent most of a year in rehab, had several operations to repair some of the damage done to her once lovely face.  Still bandaged and terribly frightened, Caitlyn walked out of that hospital determined to put her life back together. She felt so alone; her family gone, and the friends she did have suddenly had no room in their lives for a disfigured freak.

Caitlyn had a little money in an account left to her by an old uncle who had died some years ago.  With her meager inheritance and the settlement from the accident, she was able to rent an apartment and begin to rebuild her life.  She tried to go back to church, but the stares and the pity were simply too much for her to bear. What was the use?  God had left her a long time ago; now she would leave Him, too.

There were no jobs to be had; interviewers were horrified by her appearance.  Oh they never said anything, but she could see it on their faces.  She was a monster to them.  Caitlyn was living in a horror film with no end.  She was so angry and again she screamed out at God blaming Him for what had become of her life.  Mom always said God loved them and that every good and perfect thing came from Him. Mom was wrong; God had robbed her of her life and her family and nothing about that was good, let alone perfect.  She stopped praying entirely. In a fit of rage, Caitlyn threw her bible into the trash and hurled even more abuse at God for doing this to her.

Caitlyn slowly withdrew from society completely.  With technology, everything she needed could be ordered online and she would never have to leave the comfort of her home.  She finally landed a job writing for a local newspaper; they sent her meager paycheck straight to her bank. Caitlyn never had to see anyone.  She could order food from the grocery or from any local take-out.  She bought what few items she needed using her credit card and her laptop and retreated further and further into her self-imposed exile.

One afternoon as she was bringing her mail back up to her apartment, Caitlyn noticed the apartment door across from hers was open.  There were boxes everywhere and it appeared a new tenant was moving in.  An elderly man with a shock of white hair sticking out from his head was limping across the foyer of the apartment headed right for her, and he was smiling.  Caitlyn quickly opened her own door and shut it firmly behind her, not wanting him to see her up close.

She couldn’t get the old man out of her mind.  Caitlyn thought about taking him a welcoming gift but worried he would be thoroughly repelled by her appearance.  She decided she couldn’t take the chance at yet more rejection and she settled back into her lonely existence.

Weeks went by and Caitlyn would retrieve her mail from the downstairs lobby, ride the elevator back up to her apartment, but she never saw her new neighbor.  She decided it was time to stop thinking of him.

Caitlyn was awaiting a delivery from UPS and as her doorbell rang, she never considered it could be anyone other than the delivery man.  She opened the door wide expecting to see someone in a brown uniform but instead was met by the smiling face of the elderly man who had moved in across the hall.

Feeling panic, she wanted to close the door, but couldn’t.  He introduced himself as Jim; she told him her name was Caitlyn.  He smiled and she found herself opening the door wider and inviting him inside.  He looked straight at her face, never flinched, smiled wider and told her he’d love to come inside for a visit.

Caitlyn fixed tea; they talked.  As the hours went by she found herself telling him her story.  He was a patient listener.  When Caitlyn finished, Jim reached over and took her hand.  “Child, don’t you know that God never left you?  He feels your pain every day and weeps along with you.  He wants only good for you and you must believe He does have a plan for your life.  Don’t give up on Him; He has never given up on you.”  Jim talked more of God and Caitlyn listened.  He had such a soothing voice; this little wizened old man.  Caitlyn found herself comforted just by his presence.   She forgot all about her ravaged face.  Caitlyn invited him to stay and have dinner, although she didn’t have anything special to offer him.  Jim was happy to stay and tickled at the thought of sharing a frozen macaroni and cheese casserole.

After dinner, he helped with the dishes and they had another cup of tea in the living room.  Jim said it was time for him to go but he had enjoyed his evening and it had been a pleasure to meet such a lovely person as herself.  Before he left he took her hand again and reminded her that God loved her and called her His own. Caitlyn smiled as she closed her apartment door.

The next morning as Caitlyn was on her way into the kitchen to make tea, she noticed an envelope sticking out from under her front door.  She leaned down, picked up the envelope and turned it over.  On the front was simply her name; Caitlyn.

She opened the envelope and inside she found two pieces of paper.  The first was an announcement of a job opening for an Assistant Youth Minister at the nondenominational church around the corner from Caitlyn’s apartment.  The second page was a letter from her former pastor addressed to the pastor of the nondenominational church recommending Caitlyn as an excellent choice for the position of Assistant Youth Minister.  Caitlyn’s mouth hung open in surprise.  This was so strange.  Caitlyn immediately thought of sharing this with her new neighbor; after all they had spent the prior evening discussing God.  Maybe Jim had been right; perhaps God did have a plan for Caitlyn and she had simply closed her heart to Him in her anger and pain. Surely he would have some insight into this.

She walked out of her apartment and crossed the hallway.  The door to Jim’s apartment was slightly ajar.  Caitlyn gently knocked, then pushed open the door to find the apartment was empty.  No boxes, no furniture, no Jim.  Caitlyn didn’t know what to think.

She returned to her own apartment and dialed the apartment manager.  “What has happened to the new tenant in Apartment 7B?” she asked.  “That apartment hasn’t been rented in months,” replied the manager.  Caitlyn was alarmed. “No, you must be mistaken; I met the new neighbor just last night.  We had dinner together.”  The manager sighed and said, “I’m sorry but Apartment 7B has been vacant for several months now; I assure you no one has rented it.”

Caitlyn hung up the phone and smiled.  She walked into her living room and there on her coffee table was a new bible, opened to a section of the New Testament.  Her eyes followed the marked passage and she read aloud from Hebrews 13:2, “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”  Sticking out from the back of the bible was a piece of paper.  On it was written, “God loves you, and so do I.”  Jim.

From a Window

The once-white curtains fluttered as Elise sat at her parlor room window.  Like so many days ticked off a calendar, her life was now marked by the scenes she watched; a lone grey squirrel scampering up the birch tree, a fluttering of oak leaves dancing through the sunlight on their journey to the ground.  She watched people walking past her cottage, going about their busy lives. Some would wave and say hello; others would simply ignore her.  It had been this way for many years. Each day was like the last; only changing with the seasons parading by her window.

Winter surrounded her. It was Elise’s favorite season.  Outside, snow nestled quietly on silvery branches, reminding her of the soft white blanket on her bed.  She found the combination of warmth from the house and slight chill coming from the drafty front window oddly comforting.  Icicles from the eaves melted as the afternoon sun turned their hardened edges into slow-motion droplets.  Drip, drip, drip; Elise studied each one as it fell away.

Snow-suited children in the neighboring yard screamed with delight as they fashioned a snowman in between snowball fights.  A snowball hit the window causing Elise to jump back and catch her breath.  Having never been a mother, Elise didn’t understand the whirlwind nature of little ones; their constant bursts of energy.  Relaxing once again, she returned her gaze to the scene outside as the children waved at her and returned to their yard.

Daylight was dimming and it would soon be time for dinner.  Elise’s stomach growled in anticipation.  For now, she was simply too tired to walk to the kitchen; her joints ached so these days.  Dinner could wait a bit.

The children scattered as their mothers called them inside for the evening.  Activity ceased outside Elise’s little cottage and it became quiet once again. Streetlights came on and cast an eerie glow onto the snow-packed yard outside the parlor window.

She sensed someone was calling her from the kitchen, but the ravages of time had also robbed Elise of her hearing. Slowly, painfully, she rose from her seat as the once-white curtains fluttered from the draft of the old window. Stretching her arthritic limbs, Elise longed to be a kitten just one more time.

The Last Supper

We met at Amelia’s, an upscale restaurant not far from the Pentagon.  It was a warm summer evening in 1982.  In town for business, he came in on the Metro.  I drove in from the Northern Virginia suburbs.

A younger version of my father, I recognized him immediately.  Although I had not seen him in over ten years, there was no doubt who that tall man was walking toward me.  His voice was deep like dad’s and he casually hugged me as if the time apart had only been days, not years.

I introduced him to my fiance and the two men sized each other up across the table.  The look on my fiance’s face spoke volumes about the uneasy relationship he was witnessing.  Across the table, the brown eyes gazing back at me seemed to say, “Who is this woman who was once my little sister?”

Dinner arrived in courses; each accompanied by the banality of current events as we skirted the major issues of our separate lives and the reasons for our distance.  Yet, there was an underlying need to connect.  Desperation hung thickly over the table like an emotional fog.

Pushing his plate aside, he flipped through his wallet to a picture of his wife.  I remembered her only too well.  Ginny was the Yoko in my dysfunctional Beatles family.  He pulled out snapshots of  two young girls; his daughters.  The resemblance to a younger me took away my ability to breathe and I clung to my water glass for stability.  These were the nieces I had never met.

Our evening ended awkwardly.  We divided the bill and I invited him to my upcoming wedding knowing full well he would find a reason he couldn’t attend.  I walked with him to a painfully empty Metro station.  He boarded the train going in the opposite direction; we waved at each other as the train gathered speed.

I never saw my brother again.

Grandma, What Time is It?

I was almost eight years old before I learned to tell time — I could neither read a clock, nor a watch; I had no conception of time.  Of all people, it was my step-grandmother who sat down at the kitchen table of the house I lived in, took off her own watch, placed it in front of me and explained to me what all the numbers meant.

Eight years old.  The only child in my grade who couldn’t tell time.

Until then, no one cared if I knew how to tell time.  It was not important to the order of the household.  I went where I was told, when I was told.  I arose when I was called from my bed.  My stepmother pushed me out the door each morning giving me enough time to walk to the elementary school two blocks away.  I returned home when the teacher dismissed me. I played outside until the light started to dim and my father would holler out the door, “Get in here, it’s supper time!”   I bathed when told I had better get in the bathtub soon because it was almost bedtime.  I slept when my light was turned off.  Each day was the same; my time was arranged for me.

What time was it?  I never knew exactly.  Until Grandma sat down that day at the table and opened up a new world for me.  Once I grasped the concept of the hour hand and the minute hand and the very little second hand, she reached into the pocket of her flowered housedress and handed me something wrapped in tissue paper.

It was my first wristwatch.  There was a black leather band and the face of the watch had what appeared to me a crystal over it and a silver band running around the edge.  The numbers were easy to read and there were little tick marks to show the seconds creep by as the skinny second hand swept around its way to another minute marked.   A watch.  A real watch. It was much too big for my little wrist so we had to poke extra tiny holes in the band but it was mine.  It made tiny ticking sounds as it kept time for me.  What a precious gift – the gift of time.

I still have the watch.

Welcome, Put Your Feet Up and Rest a Bit

Welcome to Parchment Monkey.  This is where I will practice my craft of writing.  I hope you visit often and feel free to lose yourself in my stories, reminiscences, make-believe, and occasional autobiographical balderdash.  Feel free to critique or comment although be aware that I do this to feed my own soul.   You may know me from Crone and Bear It or my other blog Crap on a Crutch.  Those are outlets for my silliness.  Do not be fooled by my sense of humor.  This blog is for serious writing about serious subjects which I hope will reach you on a completely different level.  You may laugh anyway, or you may cry.  You may get halfway through and give up in disgust.  But I am compelled to write and now I feel equally compelled to bring you into my world.

So, sit back, put your feet up, grab a cup of tea and join me.  Cheers.