Tuesday, February 07, 2006
i don't remember clearly...
I remember him lying in bed and moaning in pain. I remember my mother singing joy comes in the morning by his bedside. It was 1976, I think, and I was about six years old, but I don't remember clearly.
At the top of the stairs, above the dark chasm of the downstairs mysteries, I remember standing. The wood paneling of the dirty clothes hamper at my back, and utter silence, except for my sudden scream. Maybe I knew nobody was down there. I remember feeling like I was shrinking, like I was falling. Like I was suddenly the smallest thing in the world. I remember uncontrollable tears until someone found me, probably my oldest sister, but I don't remember clearly.
At church, I remember anger. I remember being hateful and violent. I remember hiding behind the tiny puppet show stand until someone, I think my older brother, came and got me. I remember riding back and forth with only my two sisters, and brother, in our station wagon, across the vacant grey fields of north Texas, listening to them talk about things I didn't understand.
These memories come hard for me. They're behind doors, under tables, hidden in closets and behind curtains. They are the shadows in a room lit only by candles. They rush away when I try to see them more clearly, and sink into the cracks. These are my lost years. These were the years I almost became fatherless, from what they tell me.
I remember standing in the doorway of a hospital room. Tubes, beeps, and a broken body lying there. I remember not being able to look at him fully in the face. Being afraid. I remember that. There is a blur of people coming and going in my mind. People who came through, talked, patted me on the head, and left. I didn't understand. Why couldn't he come home? Why couldn't she come home? I suppose my oldest sister, at 19 maybe, took over surrogate mothering during this dark time, but I don't remember clearly.
Maybe this time in my life is why I'm different. A little "off" some might say. Maybe it's what makes me who I am. I don't know, however, because I don't remember those years clearly. It's been hard to even write this, because the content is so vague. But he survived, came home, and my memories regain their strength starting in 1980. My lost years are still hidden. I wonder what's in there? After thirty years, I still don't know, and it's nobody's fault. There's nobody to blame. I just don't want it to happen again.
"Son, I'm going to have something done to me on Monday."
"What?"
"Well, it's kinda hard to explain."
"Will you be ok?"
"I think so. How old are you now son?"
"I'm six dad."
