Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

The bending link that stretches, tears, Weakened until there’s almost nothing there, Still keeps its shape and binds the chain of life To Mother’s Day.

Mothers get breakfast in bed. Fathers get socks. Mothers get bunches of flowers. Fathers get ties. Mothers get boxes of chocolates. Fathers get socks. Mothers get beautiful scarves. Fathers get ties. Mothers get washing and cleaning. Fathers get socks. Mothers get cooking the dinner. Fathers get ties. Parents get love.

Every word was a promise when the children were small. Every “Maybe,” “We’ll see,” “We’ll have to ask your Dad.” Every “I’ll try,” or “I’ll do my best.” And even every “No,” misheard as “Yes.” “But Mommy, you promised!” Their father was big on promises too. Phone-calls forgotten, floors un-swept, jobs she never applied for, all were pledges un-kept. The empty milk-carton in the fridge was proof she could never be trusted. In weary work and jobs unfinished, unstarted, she longed for sleep. “But I have promises to keep,” said the voice in her head as hope freed her heart.

Love was always a possibility. Pigs could fly if they grew wings, or if the air grew thick like glue to hold them. The glue of promises kept her at his side though love seemed lost—glue of memory, of commitment, or fear of change. On Mother’s Day the family took her to brunch, which was nice, but she still had to clean. They gave her gifts and her husband placed the tiny box in her hand. “Like your heart,” he said, as she gazed at the necklace inside. “A jewel. Delicate. Please say it’s not broken.” And she smiled.

They laughed at her at school—hair the wrong color, dress the wrong style, her name too hard to pronounce. They laughed at her at home—too small to stand up to her brothers, too weak to be any use, too quiet to count. The trees laughed in the forest, and the sprites by the pool. Ravens mocked, and spiders bound her in webs of mediocrity. “I’m lonely,” she cried, and the breeze caressed her cheeks. Feathers of grass-seed soothed her fears. Dawn’s chorus filled her ears with mother-love and shared its joy. When someone cares it’s easier to laugh.

“Can you see me now?” asks the little boy. “Mommy, can you see?” It’s simple—she can see him, or he can be hidden—what more could there be? The mother looks at the images in her mind—sleeping child, crying child, playing child, trying child. She hears him laugh but half of her’s still trying to soothe his tears, till the next time. Bubbles float in the air round his head, each carrying its fraction of his life. Bright faces smile. “Can you see me now?” “Yes son.” She sees a thousand of him there, and loves them all.

Blue sky; blue sea; slipping under and free, with water's bubbles sounding in her ears: Blue was Megan's peaceful place, where she retreated, where the world resolved itself; a few square feet of ocean, fish and weed, breathing the seeds of silence. Red was pain, haze fogging dreams, bringing the present thrashing to the surface, splashing, scared. "This is destiny. Relax," said the voice in her head. And red turned black, dark dread, as if it would all be futile in the end. Then a cry, and blue calm water mending ease. They laid her newborn babe between her knees.

They pose for the photo: Grandma in her armchair wrapped in a shawl, she who never knitted at all; Mother behind, stands firm and tall, hoping baby won’t cry and the kettle won’t boil; Daughter sits, back straight and shoulders back, while Baby, little new-born fourth-generation, sucks her fist and threatens to squall. Father, or is he Grandfather now, clicks the shutter. Son-in-law says, “What do I do when the kettle makes a noise?” Brother shuts the kitchen door, hiding the mess safe inside, because it’s Mother’s Day and there’s pictures to take. Grandma falls asleep and Mother brews tea.

“Have you ever wondered?” the old woman said, lying in bed, inspecting pills and water-glass. “Wondered what Mom?” Her daughter cleared the plate, reminding her with her look, “don’t forget the second tablet and drink plenty of water while you’re taking it. And mark it in your book.” “Wondered what?” she asked. The little boy peeked through the door. “Say goodnight to Grandma,” said Mom, “then off to bed young man and no dawdling. You do as you’re told.” “Have you ever wondered how you tell them what to do, and then you’re old and it’s them that’s telling you?”

She mended fingers and knees when they were hurt, her touch cleaner than Band-Aid, warmer than cream, banishing screams. She mended wounded spirits were hopes were dashed, her confidence enough to re-inspire with hope that lasts. She mended broken hearts as friendships passed, her own heart ever wounded ever hiding its own pain. She mended suffering souls when love grew hard. She put the pieces back again and proved her children worthy of her care. She was their mother. She was always there until she wasn’t. And then they mended, tended her, pronounced their mother loved and worth their care.

The wall was made of wind-worn blocks of stone, some standing safe and others tumbled down. Their solid squareness gave a sense of purpose to the shape, a certainty that other hands besides the wind and rain and fate worked here. The mother climbed, her shoulders stooped, a boulder slung in her arms. She chipped and cut, fitting the new square block into a gap. Then another stone fell. Meanwhile a small ghost watched from a corner of the room, fingers drifting, words to tell. The carving on the floor declared, “Born 1801; died 1802; I’ll never let you go.”