Marylouise
Knight
Omaha, Nebraska, US
My youngest son turns 36 today - I meet him for lunch at Goldberg's with gift
bag in hand. This celebration is tradition with us but for me, it is
practice in the art of compromise. My southern roots protest - this is not
the proper way to mark the day he was born. I realize that If he has any memory
of his entrance into this world it stands apart from mine. A hard lesson for any
mother - she remembers this child entering life through her life. Once I get
past what should be I can relax into what is and enjoy the occasion. I delight
in my son, this particular soul who has the capacity to make me laugh as no
other, who turns me into a giddy, manic mess devoid of all dignity while
drinking only ice tea.
folded hands rest
the table a vast divide -
immutable laws
A few days later sorting out the
back-hall closet, I open a box to discover a remnant of the past - a cloth doll
(who knows the when or why of what we save). Stripped of clothes the head on the
flesh-colored cloth body is marked by blue ink squiggles here and there with a
few jogs of red marker in between. The body is split open from crotch to chest
and the stuffing still wants to spill out as I carefully unfold the tissue paper
wrapped around it. Love did this.
the stuff of our past
spills into our present -
where do we put it? |
