We hadn’t yet moved to our forever home, so I must have been in third grade. We were living in subsidized housing – a single mom and her three kids. It was a two-bedroom apartment. The boys shared one bedroom, and I slept with my mom. I swear, that woman could hear a hair fall out of your head, then complain that you were making too much noise. I’d lay so still, barely breathing so as not to provoke her wrath. Rolling over was not an option – I wouldn’t even attempt it.
One day, all four of us were in the boys’ bedroom. Mom was lying on the lower bunk, snuggling my little brother, Peter. I’m not sure how the game started, but Ralph and I were on the floor at the edge of the bed pretending to be sea monsters, trying to snatch the “baby” from her arms. We’d crouch and growl, bare our teeth and try to snatch that baby with our hand/claws.
The more we played – and the more mom cuddled her baby – the heavier that cloak of sadness became. I could hardly swallow past that huge lump in my throat.
The game wasn’t just a game – it was a metaphor. Ralph and I were always on the outside – cast off into the sea to fend for ourselves. Peter was safe in Mom’s arms, protected from us. Was I the only one who saw this? Apparently so.
That overwhelming sense of longing wasn’t new – it was a repeating pattern. And once again it cut deep into a wound that never really healed; it just thickened into scar tissue.
What would it be like to feel a loving mom’s soft body cocoon you? What would it be like to smell the warmth of her body and feel protected oneness? I have no earthly idea – really.
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? But I made another mental note. One more confirming incident that we, Ralph and I, were outside looking in. We were clothed and fed. But we were not cherished. Parents can be idiots. Right in their face and they can’t see the most obvious of tragedies.
At the time, I kept the realization to myself. It was too heavy, too painful – and I already knew it would land on a heart with no room for me, and certainly no room for Ralph either.
Looking back, I see that moment for what it was, another real-life experience with holding an unpopular perspective while others could not accept the load. A truth I could see clearly, but one I had to carry alone.
Some day I’ll be able to point out the metaphor without the energetic power of years of pent-up emotional neglect fueling my delivery.
