Momma

40 years ago today, my mother chose to end her life. Even after all these years, I still miss her. She was often unable to give me what I needed from a mother. But this volatile, moody woman was the same person who taught me how to love Chopin, and musical theater, and poetry, and animals. She gave me the gift of humor that has been such an important part of my survival… and taught me how to laugh with all my being. In acknowledging these gifts, I believe I have finally come full circle. First denial, then pity, then rage… and finally, forgiveness. I know that she was human and flawed, and as an innocent child, I deserved more from my mother. But now I know that she did the best she was able to do, and in spite of everything, I know that my mother loved me with all her heart. She is an eternal part of who I am. I will always love her, and I know now that she will always love me too.

Once there was love
And she would sing to me
About her little girl
Pink and white as peaches and cream
And she would stroke my hair.

Once there were Saturdays
Filled with the sounds of the Metropolitan on the radio
Being lifted above mundane chores
On the magnificent strains of
La Traviata or Butterfly.

Once there were pretty dresses
Each one unique and beautiful
All made with love
By my personal dressmaker and mother
Just for me.

Once there was ballet
The Nutcracker
Second tier
Seeing nothing but the tops of heads
But sharing the wonder.

Once there were concerts
Recitals and musicals
“The Sound of Music,” “Cabaret,” “No No Nannette”
Some of my happiest times
And she was my fan club.

Once there were surprises
Coming home from a week at summer camp
To find my room redecorated
With the door closed
And wrapped like a giant birthday gift.

Once there was love, imperfect and flawed
But strong enough and loud enough
To break through the chaos that was life
And leave me aching to once more hear her song
And feel her stroke my hair.
 

Barbara Ann Angel Wrightson 

11/28/30 - 1/14/76 

I love you so much Momma!

Mourning and Cherry Pie

Mourning and Cherry Pie  

Everyone was having such a good time.  She could hear them talking over their plates of food.  So many people had come to bring things; casseroles, salads, all kinds of desserts.  Laura lay on Granny’s bed listening to the noises of the house.  The sound of dishes clinking and clanking came from the kitchen.  The doorbell rang, new voices entered, and she could hear someone clearing off the buffet to make room for more gifts of food.  Was this a Southern tradition - this endless bringing of things to eat?  It didn’t make any sense.  The last thing she wanted right now was food.  She felt as if she would never be able to eat again... or sleep again either.  Nothing would ever be okay again.  Nothing.

Laura tried to cover her ears with a pillow.  She couldn’t bear to hear all the talking, but the pillow only muffled the sound; it was still there.  The doorbell rang, another gift of food was presented, and several more voices were added.  There was no way to avoid hearing the North Carolina drawl as they spoke.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”
“How did it happen?”
“She was only 45 - just a young woman.”
“Such a tragedy.  How is Laura?”
“How will that dear child handle this in her condition?”

When she tried to roll over, Laura was reminded of the reason for the questions about her “condition.”  The baby in her belly was nearly six months old and had almost been lost three times to miscarriages.  There had been so many complications... and now this.  “If my child survives in spite of all that’s happened in its short life, I guess I’ll know how much it wants to be here,” she thought to herself.  The doorbell disrupted her reverie once again, followed by the foghorn voice of her grandparent’s neighbor, Mrs. Stanfield.  “Where’s Laura?  Laura dear, where are you sweet child?  How will she ever bear this?  Barely in her twenties… a baby havin’ a baby!  Paper said the death was an accident, but that’s not what I heard, no sir...”

Laura buried her head deeper in the pillows until the words were just a mumble.  No one was supposed to know.  That was Granny’s decision.  Don’t tell anyone.  There was no need to talk about it, not even to each other.  She heard a sudden rush of footsteps on the wooden floor as Mrs. Stanfield was whisked to a seat at the far end of the dining room.  The Protectors were at work again; two cousins who were the self-appointed sentinels of the family’s grief.  They had been working vigilantly for two days, making sure that no one got too close... said too much... interfered with the family's denial.  They had done their job very well... until now.  

Suddenly the idea was in the air, and it hung there like a ravenous beast, waiting to devour them.  The attack came in soft whispers.
“What did she mean, not an accident?’
“Pastor said she slipped and fell!”
“The woman did have cancer, you know.”
“You don’t suppose it could have been... suicide?”

At last, there was the word.  It was said by someone Laura had never seen before; a fiftyish mousy looking woman who had arrived bearing some kind of cake.  It was the first time the word had been spoken aloud, and it hovered over the people, dripping its poison.  It grew in Laura's head, multiplying, reverberating, amplifying to a deafening roar.  Suicide.  A sixth story hotel window, a desperately hopeless woman, and a fatal leap to the concrete below.  Suicide.  “The victim never regained consciousness,” the reports would say.  Suicide.  Quick and probably painless, at least for the victim.  But who was the real victim... the one who died, or the ones who were still alive?

Laura cried herself into a deep, merciful sleep, and the bedspread under her head was still damp with her tears an hour later when she woke.  For just a moment she experienced that gentle state of amnesia that sleep often brings, and then reality roared into her head once again.  “I’m at Granny’s house.  People and food are everywhere.  There was a memorial service this morning at Oakley Baptist Church.  The minister of music sang 'Because He Lives,' and the pastor talked about seeing our loved ones in heaven someday.”  It had really happened.  All of it had really happened.

There was no formal viewing and no graveside service.  Laura had insisted on this.  It was what Mama would have wanted.  But Granny and Granddaddy had to see the body, so they made Aunt Willie take them.  Granny said that Laura needed to go so that she would accept the death... what kind of memory is that to engrave on your mind?  They went without her. She stayed at the house and tried to keep taking one breath after another.  “For the baby,” she kept thinking.  “I have to keep going for the baby.”

Now it was all over; greeting the relatives when her plane landed, deciding on the music for the funeral, the surreal job of choosing clothes for her mother to be buried in... and then somehow managing to sit through the service.  All that was left was to endure the endless smorgasbord of well-wishers bearing food.  She glanced through the French doors into the living room and saw her grandparents huddled together surrounded by sons, daughters, grandchildren, long-time friends, church acquaintances.  “Guess they needed this - it seems to be good for them,” Laura thought.  “I suppose I should be grateful.”  But gratitude was in short supply for her right now.  The Protectors had been watching her from a distance, giving her space to grieve, but now it was evident that she needed more than solitude.  They settled in at each side of her on the old mahogany four-poster bed, stroking her hair and speaking words of comfort.  Laura loved them for being there, and yet their support was threatening her self-control.  The doorbell rang again, and someone called from the kitchen, “Does anyone want more cherry pie?”  The tears that had been leaking in a steady stream down Laura’s cheeks now became a flood, wracking her body uncontrollably.  Then she was speaking, but the words were indiscernible through her sobs.  When her cousins could finally understand what she was saying, the words broke their hearts.  They were words of someone insane with grief.  “They’re having a party,” she sobbed.  “Make them stop!  Please make them stop!  My mother is dead!  She killed herself and everyone’s having a party!  Oh God, please make them stop!”  Her words had risen to a scream, and the people in the living room looked toward the closed French doors uncomfortably.  They glanced at each other, shifted awkwardly in their seats, paused in mid-conversation.  For a moment, the silence was broken only by a daughter's desperate, inconsolable sobbing.  Then once again the doorbell rang, and Laura’s anguish... the anguish of a child whose mother had chosen to leave her forever... was lost in the rush to serve up hot fried chicken and freshly baked cherry pie.

 

(originally written in 1988 for “Don’t Fall Off the Edge”)

Chocolat!

I have had a love/hate relationship with chocolate all my life. It is my passion, my addiction, and my doom. My mouth, mind, heart, and soul worship at the chocolate altar. Conversely, my body rejects it full out. Inflamed joints, headaches, digestive problems and initial hyperactivity which then gives way to dysphoria – these are the gifts with which chocolate rewards me for my homage. It is not a compatible substance for my physical being. I suspect that the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil that is said to have gotten Adam and Eve in so much trouble was probably hung with cocoa beans instead of apples… irresistible, but with disenchanting after effects, to say the least. That, in a cocoa bean shell, is the definition of chocolate and me.

Today I found a small nugget of Dove milk chocolate lurking near the bottom of my backpack. I had picked it up from the candy dish in a friend’s office, and then miraculously forgotten about it. Finding it was like discovering a chest full of gold doubloons. Here was this tiny, 1½ inch x ¾ inch rectangle of delight in a deep royal blue and gold foil wrapper, sitting there waiting to be discovered. It was just there among my books and backpack minutiae – enticing me – calling alluringly, “I won’t hurt you. I’m so small. Savor me. Melt me on your tongue. Relish my sensual richness. You know you want me.” It was such a tiny indulgence – and I immediately convinced myself it was not enough to really cause any trouble. Just an infant piece of chocolate. Innocent. There was no other choice but to yield to its pleadings.

The thought immediately came to me; “I will eat this mindfully. I will fully explore the experience of this tiny miracle I have been given. Being mindful will make it okay. This will truly bring a moment of enlightenment for me.”

I set the stage for my experience with classical music so that the lilting tones of Mozart or Chopin would enrich my mindful state, and a fountain on my headboard added the bubbling sound of water over rocks. I placed my body in a semi lotus position in the middle of the quilt covering my waterbed. How Zen of me. I cleansed my palate with a drink of cool clear filtered water, then began to examine my treasure. The shiny wrapper gleamed in my hand, and I listened attentively to the crackle of the foil as I gingerly unwrapped the ends. Immediately, the wonderful aroma began drifting up to me. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ahhh.” Joanne Harris’ book came to my mind. "Chocolat." Speaking French, I realized, was just another meaningful part of this transformational experience. "Chocolat."

Always being one to follow instructions, I tore where the wrapper said, “tear here.” It parted easily and I once again inhaled the fragrance of my obsession. Then I thought, “How should I best indulge myself? Should I bite it in two pieces, giving the illusion of increased quantity?” I quickly decided that it would be more mindful to luxuriate in the entire bite all at once. Gently placing the morsel on my tongue, I tenderly closed my mouth around it.

The first sensation was the sweet smoothness… the deep richness of it. I ran my tongue across the rectangular bottom, defining the distinct edges, and then over the smooth rounded top. “Do not bite it.” I warned myself. “Let it melt slowly, savoring each tiny delectable drop.” The sweetness was intense, leaving an odd but pleasurable sensation in the back of my throat. “This is the way to do it. Let it melt in your mouth. You won’t even need to chew. Just let it vanish. Do not bite it!”

I bit once on the left side and twice on the right. I couldn’t control myself. I had to feel it – that exquisite sensation of teeth gliding through dense chocolate. Then I continued to let the smooth sweet confection melt down the back of my palate.

“This is the epitome of being ‘in the moment,’ ” I told myself smugly. “There is no way anyone can tell me I don’t have this mindfulness thing down-pat.” The last creamy drops of milk chocolate were meandering down the back of my tongue and sliding down my throat.

“Ahhh, Chocolat.” I repeated.

Mindfully I put on my shoes, paying attention to the way the shoe slipped onto my foot and the way the shoe strings felt under my hands. As I grabbed my car keys I fully experienced the cool metal and the jingle as they clinked gently together. I felt the soft leather of my wallet as I tucked it under my arm. The night air felt cool on my cheek, and the road was bathed in the golden glow of a full moon as I turned my car toward my destination. I wandered thoughtfully through the aisles with a renewed appreciation for the bounty that we have in our land. And as I drove away, I knowingly patted the small bag next to me on the seat. I knew in my heart that just as I had mindfully savored that single nugget of delicious chocolate just moments before, so would I be fully in the moment as I indulged in these additional 24 pieces of Dove milk chocolate nestled on the seat beside me.

Chocolat… Sweet Chocolat. Namaste. 

 LAE 2002

THE AIR IS GONE (Caution - explicit post)

The air is gone.

I was breathing it - in and out… in and out…

and then I am sitting on the edge of the stirruped table

waiting for my yearly exam to begin

in a tiny half-gown only big enough for a child

the tissue-thin paper shredding as I try in vain

to cover my large adult nakedness…

sitting alone

waiting…

knowing in my head that I am safe

that I am choosing this wait

knowing in my head that I am not waiting for "him"

but the panic doesn't understand anything

except that I am naked

and waiting

and suddenly

there is no adult in the room,

but instead, a trembling 9 year old

struggling to cover her bare body…

waiting for the horror she knows is coming

the horror that has happened before…

and before…

and before…

and I cannot breath because

the air is gone. 

LAE  5/28/15