A guided writing exercise escorted me to a hidden door within my mind. One whose beckoning I have ignored for over four decades. Inside is a memory. A moment in time pleading to be recalled. To be written about, and to be healed. My earliest childhood memory.
The chaperone, Catherine Murray–Momoir 101, began the exercise with reading a poem. Clearing by Martha Postlewaite. Then she said, “Recline into your wooden chairs, close your eyes and relax your breathing. Be mindful of your feet on the ground, and the air coming in and out of your lungs. Focus on the part of your belly just below your belly-button, and listen. Be kind to yourself, gentle and forgiving. Listen, listen to what is calling to you. Allow it to awaken and become present in your mind. Welcome what it sounds like. It is asking for your attention. Over and over. Breath deeply, and continue to be mindful of what is happening. Listen to what hails you and give it a name. When I instruct you to open your eyes I want you to write about this nagging rouse. Write for fifteen minutes. Disregard grammar, punctuation, run-on sentences and spelling. Simply write.”
And, so, I did…
Her cries. My God her cries. Long, drawn and howling. My ears haze over with a numbness—ringing. I am frozen. I cannot breath nor move. Her grieving is frightening. I want it to stop. I want her wails to quiet and for her to hug me and tell me she is strong and that everything will be okay. If she is not okay I surely am not. What can I do? How can I make this stop? I nervously smooth my dolly’s yellow and tangled hair. I put a teddy bear around one of my ears and press the opposite one against my pillow. I close my eyes, “Stop. Please stop.” She continues. I wrap my upper-rm around the teddy bear over my ear and press hard. Her cries rumble though the walls into my room and through my armpit, upper-arm and teddy. I pull myself out from my toddler sized bed and find my mother. Her wails continue in my visual presence. She paces from sitting on her bed to the living room and back again to sit. “Mom?” She continues. I am invisible. “Mom, what is wrong? Why are you so sad?” She points to the tiny trash-can next to a desk in her bedroom. In it I find crumpled pieces of paper. It could have been one or four, I do not recall. I want her to stop. I want her to be okay. I pull the pieces of paper from the trash and smooth them out as best I can on the desk. “I can fix them, momma.” I have no idea what the words on the paper say but am sure her upsetedness comes from their crumpled ruin. I continue to press my tiny hands across each paper and give my best attempt to smooth away my mother’s grief. Her long and drawn out calls of sadness vibrate with hot heat in my ears. My chest feels heavy and my heart panicked. My entire body feels intoxicated with fear. We are not okay. A world ending feeling, like the breath is knocked out of me and my desire to survive the moment pulls me away from her and into my closet. Where of my baby brother. If I am so young, unable to read, I too must be a baby. Maybe on the other side of baby when you don’t wear a diaper anymore, however, a baby none-the-less. If I was three, my mother would have been eighteen. My brother. Always absent from my memories. As absent as the hug from my mother or an empathetic, “everything’s going to be okay,” or perhaps the confidence instilled in a child that her parents can take care of her. My brother. God, I wish I focused on him and not her. As alone and afraid as I felt, he must have been petrified.
