* Keeping a promise I made to her, to tell our story...*
All My Mother’s Children
Chapter One
I should begin at the beginning, but I won’t, I can’t, due to a childhood injury and a mother who didn’t believe in doctors…that memory is lost forever, swallowed whole in the dark abyss that awaits us all…My memory begins like a series of flashbacks…still photographs in black and white…thank god… or the blood would drip from these pages and stain your skin, like it has stained mine. All my mother’s children were orphans of the world, doomed to wander lost in a cold and uninviting place where children chewed on notebook paper and soft tar to ease the pain that burned in their bellies on hot summer nights, when we laid in hard beds without a mother to comfort us, or our tears. Nor did she see fit, to wake us from this nightmare, though she did have the mercy to end a few of us, before we had suffered enough to realize, the only way out of this hell, was to take our own lives…and they did! Those brave enough, left this world without regret or goodbyes. left us, and every time they did, a little more of our soul died with them, and the heart that beat so grievously inside our empty chest, grew a little colder and harder…realizing, we were unworthy of love.
I digressed didn’t I…left the subject. I was going to tell you about those still photographs that flash in my mind from time to time. We lived on my Uncles Ranch, high in the hills, so high that flat landlers (that’s what we called them, and they called us. the kids from the hill…) found it hard to breathe, and harder to keep up with us. I was swinging on a heavy oak swing, sweat beading in my hands, I let go to get a better grip, and fell straight down, the swing continued its arc and hit the back of my head, laid me out cold, yet…I could see, the photographs flash like a slide show…no sound, just the look of shock on my father’s face, forever imprinted on my mind, my older brother frozen in mid air, like a video you stop, looking for the string attached to his back…I see my father’s eyes staring at me, my brother carrying me towards the house, in stop action photographs, dark stains seeping through my thin dress and on to his shirt, thinking I will get the strap for ruining his clothes. Then, oblivion, and the sensation of falling, always falling, into blackness so deep, so warm, and so comforting, that I fought not to return.
I was in a coma for 3 months; don’t remember a thing, an image or two of tubes and wires, blood and buzzers but not much more. Just snapshots of something that happened to someone so long ago…They didn’t expect me to live, my father told me years later, neither did the doctor, and I have a signed death certificate to prove it. This is the biggest joke of my family; I can’t die, as I am already dead! Some doctor too impatient to wait for a poor ignorant child to die properly, so he signed it too early, and to the chagrin of all, I lived, only to find out 15 years later, I was declared dead, and it took an act of Congress and old hospital records to prove I was discharged in the care of my mother 5 months after being admitted to the ICU unit. What a joke my life has been, and still I cannot laugh, it’s just too damn tragic.
What do I remember? Long days spent in fields of flowers, chasing butterflies and grasshoppers, making friends of horny toads and lizards, raising rabbits and chipmunks, deer and just about any small animal that could be coaxed into our trusting hands. We lived in the woods, spending every moment climbing trees, swimming in lakes and small creeks, building forts and exploring rock caves, only returning to the den where mother called home to shower and climb into bed, sometimes sneaking out at night and laying on the roof to watch the moon rise and the stars fall. We were wild and free and unhappy… we saw other homes and they weren’t like ours at all. There were mothers who smiled when they saw their child, we looked hungrily at the food and comfort she gave them, and wish it were our own. We were the children your child brings home, and never wants to leave, making nuisance of ourselves, trying so hard to be welcome, that you drive us from your home. Yes, we were those children, until we grew up and learned; children like us frighten parents like that. They couldn’t save us, and didn’t want to, but neither did they want to be reminded that we existed in their world.
I am going to digress again, bear with me, I have grown now, I am a woman, and you know what, I take in those children, here in my own home, I have 5 children who live with my family even now as I write this, hungry, frightened, lonely children who don’t want to go home. People say to me, my god, how can you do it, you are so good to do this, but you know, I am not good at all, I am merely doing what I wish someone had done for us, I am not ashamed of them, I love them, comfort them, listen to them, buy them some small thing that brings a smile to their face, not because I am good, but because I remember how much I wanted someone to look at me, and not see the poor clothes I wore, or the thin bones, or the pain I bore, I wanted them to look at me the way they look at their own child, with happiness and pride.
Who were my mother’s children? I shall tell you now, not in the correct order, my life was chaos and I shall tell my story chaotically…
My 12 year old sister played the role of mother to us all; she gave us the comfort and love our real mother couldn’t. What a heavy cross she bore with her lovely shy smile and gentle hands that cooled our fevers, and wiped away our tears. She lived too hard and died too soon, and when we buried her, we mourned for years, and saw her in the fresh bloom of the wild mustard that grew in the fields. I will tell you about her because I want someone to remember her name, and say it softly in the long cold nights as we often did, when we called her to our shared bed, to comfort us after our nightmares, or to make us forget the hunger that burned in our bellies. The thing is, this was real, not a make believe story, a real person, so beautiful, so lovely, so sweet, the world should have taken the time to know her, and love her, she was that good. It has been years since we laid her in the rude earth, covered her with the flowers she loved, and danced our ritual of rebirth. Long hard years have passed, yet when I close my eyes, I can see her still, feel her hand on my shoulder in silent comfort, hear her voice singing us to sleep.
How can I tell you of all the times she tried to save us, take us to her home, where her fridge was filled with food, we were afraid to eat. Her husband didn’t understand our bond, and they divorced. He wanted a wife, not a nursemaid to ragged children, he’d rather forget existed. He was mean, and cruel and harsh to her. He couldn’t stand her beauty, or her sweetness, it made him look all the smaller and crude. She died trying to come home, alone, in an empty field. They never found out for sure who killed her, but we knew, we felt it in our bones, and vowed if we ever crossed paths with him again, he would die a horrible death. It was a childish revenge we sought, fruitless and meaningless, we never saw him again.
Her name was Paula, and she was the first born daughter of my mother, beautiful with all the best genes that both had to offer, some genetic freak accident had declared that every best feature from both parents would be carried on in her. She got her hair from my father, beautiful long and black, she had his eyes and my mother’s bones, God she was lovely, and all who knew her, fell in love with her beauty and sweet personality. Ah but such sweetness attracts bears, hungry and savage creatures that tear and destroy the soul of one such as this. I often wonder why she chose him, when she could have chosen another that would have given her the life she deserved. I cannot ask her, it is a question that haunts me. I was too young to save her, though I tried, taking her many times away from him, and talking to her until the very day she died, begging her to leave him and stay away. But I could see in her eyes, the love she bore for him, and even as we fled his wrath, I knew she would go back. I stopped believing in God the day she died. I could never understand a God who would take someone like her, and leave the pig she married living. I just couldn’t understand. I still don’t.
She will live in my heart forever, a beautiful flower in a field of wild mustard, wild flowers and white rocky cliffs, In the stone cave where we hid and dreamed of our future, I still remember she wanted to be a nurse of children, to heal them of their wounds, care for them as she cared for us all her life. Can you see her now? Did I describe her well enough? I hope so, she deserves to be remembered I think, don’t you?
Oh, Retta I feel for the depth of this journey.
I have found an avenue where each step one can take on the path
is a new beginning toward restoring the effects of insanity on
growing children to sanity, even as adults. It is a way I am walking and finding restoration in relationship to all that no one can take back. I hold a space for you around what is possible.
On this path I am called Crow Light Foot. It is my Spirit name.
Not only are you a poetess unique, but you're also a writer unique - two-thumbs up on this wonderful piece!!
Robert
Reviewed by P. Michaels
6/23/2004
Retta, it is very hard to write about one's life story. It great that you are doing this. It helps to put things in perspective.
It's my belief that the Creator saw your sister's pain, prepared a beautiful place for her, and took her there. Life in this world can't be compared to eternal life. Her husband received just what he deserved. He had to live everyday for the rest of life remembering what he did to one of the Creator's most beautiful creations. I hope you find your way back to believing in God and will find the path that will lead you to your lovely sister. You'll want to go where she is at, she's in a very special place, where there's nourishment, comfort, trust, love, peace, and beauty everywhere.
Love, Patty
Reviewed by Thomas Lanechanger
6/22/2004
This powerful story just ripped my heart apart!!! I am sure this was an extremely difficult write to share. I am very glad you’ve allowed a glimpse into your world Reindeer. I am quite sure us mere mortals will never understand why someone as precious as your sister was taken. I do not usually say anything when it comes to someone dear to another family member being taken especially, not from my own family. I can relate to this write. I do hope this doesn’t offend you in any way shape or form Retta. I have learned that maybe, just maybe, it was because He knew how much she was needed to help prepare the way for other decent humans to enter His Kingdom. And the beautiful memory you have of Paula has enabled you to reach out and help these other children who need someone. May the Creator always watch over you and yours.
Respectfully,
Thomas Lanechanger
Reviewed by Debashish Haar
6/4/2004
BRILLIANT progression, excellent development of characters....
Real life graps your heart, to feel ones life, and the struggle of how the words written touch your heart, knowing how you rise above your trials of life that you could not control, but etched deep within your soul, written to share your burden...
absolutely gripping, Reindeer. keep going on this. i hope when you get it all down you'll publish. and, YES, i could see Paula... I saw her smiling, looking down on you even now, safe and loved in heaven. Maybe God needed an angel like her? Peace to you, Dawn
A passionate and poignant memoir written by a woman whose life has been guided by the words: "I am here to learn how to love well." The book is a deep examination of relationships, family, motivation, and honoring of the Self.
