Reflections

When I was six, I asked my mother when my father was coming back. She was wailing uncontrollably at the time. My grandmother had to find a way to comfort both of us. My brother was not quite five yet. He stood there, staring. My father had suffered a heart attack earlier that day, the last one of several he had hidden from my mother. He was on the way to work in an adjacent county when it happened. They found him on the side of the road. He had pulled over and shut the motor off, and then he left us.

Not long afterwards, late one evening my mother bundled us in to my father's 1969 Chevrolet Nova four door sedan. I thought she might have been trying to drive to my grandmothers. She was the only relative we had in town. Along the way my mother had side swiped a barrier at fairly high speed, sending a shower of sparks by my window. We slowly ground to a stop. The front of the car had become engulfed in flames shortly thereafter. Other commuters had seen us and come to help. The car doors were locked. My mother was unresponsive to their pleas. A man came to my window and pointed at the door lock. I pulled it up and he pulled us all from the car.

My mother was in shock. She didn't speak to anyone for weeks. Not one word. And after those weeks, she rarely spoke a word to us for months. No eye contact either. She was a shell. She would cry herself to sleep every night. And often late at night, I could hear her call his name. It made me cry. I was afraid if she heard me, it would make her even more upset. I thought maybe we did something wrong. I always muffled it. To this day, when I cry, I place my hand over my mouth.

I have to assume something inside her died then. Her hopes and her dreams must have been crushed. She was alone in a strange land. I don't ever recall my mother being happy ever again as long as she lived.