MIND THE GAP

[Disclaimer: wrote this over a month ago; hard time letting it out; too intimate, you know?  Had to wait along time with this stuff deep inside me.  But balls are moving; time is healing; the drama is dated; the issues are not; updates to follow.] 

         I walked into the house this Friday afternoon from work and my daughter greeted me at the door unusually subdued.  I had been so paranoid about her behavior lately, but this Friday afternoon I was feeling so good I had not predicated anything untoward.  Immediately I was tense, “damn, just when I let my guard down”.

  “I’m sorry.” She began. Then ushered me to my room.  The door was closed. 

“It’s my fucking computer, I’m gonna open this door and see it lying in pieces. God help me.  I even hesitated: “What Vannesa?! And why are we even in this area?”

She took me in, and the room looked fine:

“Sorry that I cooked today.” She looked up at me with big sheepish eyes. 

          She is not allowed to use the stove.  My relief was so great I had to bite my tongue to hold it in and positively reinforce my daughter’s confession…by being stern and questioning.  Apparently Anna, the housekeeper, had refused to cook early enough for her tastes, so Ms V took it upon herself to warm her lunch.  “When she was finished with her work.”

          That was the part that got me; how is she finished with her at-home school work before lunch, when it is supposed to keep her occupied till I get home at 4?

“What do you mean you were ‘finished’? How could you be ‘finished’?!

“I meant my morning work!”

“What ‘morning work’?? Since when do you have ‘morning work’??

           So far I was only feigning sternness and was more playing logic games with her responses (something you will often find yourself doing with a precocious nine year old, whether you want to or not). Apparently, my hand gestures had given me away:

“Could you stop doing this ‘’? She asked with desperate bewilderment written all over her open wide face.



allforhymn.blogspot.com



 (this sarcastic gesture is something she has often questioned me about; as a once-upon-a-New Yorker, I do it often, and she finds it tiresomely abstract and thus useless-with good point)

           We broke through our cultural bridge and fell into a pool of laughter.  The innocent absurdity of such a moment was lost on neither of us.....

           Much later she sat at the dinner table writing sentences as punishment for being caught cheating during our card game.  In that car-crash-slow-motion-breakdown that has become all too familiar in our house, I brought dinner to the table to find she had been writing in teeny, tiny illegible letters and was pouting and angry.  A discussion ensued about what exactly had caused this punishment and where her anger should appropriately lie.  Somewhere there the car flipped and my little one was in my arms, keening and fighting me, and I just kept holding her and saying, in a quiet steady voice:

“Stop it; you have to stop it; just speak to me; you have to stop fighting; this isn’t you; just speak to me…: and so forth. 

         I could not believe how quickly I had lost control of the situation; control of my child, and I think I just held on to the body as if that might help me hold on to the girl.  But she was gone; way gone; and the keening and mewling with no words wouldn’t stop; and she started to look around in desperation-“Is she really frightened of me right now? Am I being frightening?” But there was no one to ask, not even her.  And then within the sounds came, “maaaaammmmmmmy”

And that’s when I let go. Whatever point I was trying to make, what ever objective I was trying to reach, I had failed and things were crossing a threshold I could not allow.

She stumbled off to her bedroom a few steps away, and fell to her bed still mewling, and mewling, and mewling-

[aside: as I write this I strangely think back to when my one year old puppy gave birth to a still born pup in the back room of our compound, with only me to watch over her.  I laid some newspapers down and tried to make her comfortable while I bore witness to something I had never been exposed to and had no idea how to handle.  When the stillborn was out, my puppy just kept licking it, trying to bring it to life, looking desperately up at me and mewling, mewling, mewling.]

         I sat there, my body literally shaking with the force of my little girl and wondered if I had overreacted, if I was in the wrong, if this all could have been prevented.  But there was a calmness in me that appeased those questions; I had not been angry, I had been scared; something was off, terribly off, and everything in me knew it. 

          I could see into the room, and I could see the edge of her bed, so I just stared at where the ends of her legs, and her insanely long feet (she’s gonna be six foot, that one) were. I wanted to call out to her, but my mother’s voice in my mind, “just let her be”, stopped me.  For once, I agreed.  In the case that I had somehow misguidedly caused a trauma to my child, and she was, in fact, lying there terrified by me, the only thing I could do was let her be, she would be feeling trapped as it was.

         Shortly thereafter, the cries stopped. A strange thing happened:  She sat up in bed and leaned past the door, her finger thrust deep inside her mouth, and looked at me….as if she was very confused.  She lay back down; I kept eating; I could see her playing with her legs; a doll; rolling about in her bed quietly. She got up and looked out her window, sat on her bed and started playing with a pair of doll scissors, trying to cut her towel.  I stared: 'was this about to start up all over again? Would I have to think about sharp objects and pills laying around for my nine year old child?' 

           She felt me looking at her, looked up….and smiled with her eyes in that shy way when she thinks I might still be upset with her from the day before, but she really hopes I’m not.  Her eyes were all puffy from crying.

“You’re dinner is very cold.”

          She jumped up and came and settled down to her meal of now congealed pasta and fried fish.  I was already full and felt I had some phone calls to make. I was feeling un-tethered; I needed to connect to something sane.  No one picked up.

          I went back to the living room to give my quiet presence, in case absence signified anger.  I was still not angry, and I was beyond scared.  There was no panic in me, but perhaps a slight premonition.  As I sat there listening to her eat behind me, the radio on in the background, I thought of the moment when I would have to explain to her teachers that my child may have behavioral issues we had not previously been aware of.  I tried to think of how to describe it in a nutshell: “It is as if she has three different brains, a sixteen year old, a nine year old, and a three year old. No, I know,” I reassured my invisible audience, “that might be the way to describe any nine year old girl; in fact, anything I would try to describe would sound normal.”  I thought back to how many hours of discussion it took my mother to understand I was not just snapping at Vannesa without reason, I had reached a threshold of desperation very few others would have been able to reach without doing a lot worse.  “With Vannesa, you have to see it to understand….she just snaps.”

         Dinner was over, and Ms V carried her plates to the kitchen with-seriously?-a bounce to her step; she was miming the lyrics to the song on the radio (“Summer, summer, summertiiiime…”) as she emptied her food into the garbage, put away her leftovers and washed her dishes.  The only thing to remind me that I had not lost my mind and it was perhaps now about an hour since she laying in her bed in the throes of an emotional fit, were her still puffy, squinty eyes.   Otherwise, I was watching a well behaved, happily satiated nine year old. 

She came back to the living room and hesitated, looking around at the windows and doors, and me. “was she still scared? Wanting someone to come rescue her?” but she didn’t seem scared, she seemed lost, and looking to me for rescue.

“Yes? Do you have something to say?” She shook her head. “Do you need something?” She tugged at her shirt and kept looking around trying to pinpoint something.  And I thought, “she’s just come back; she has no idea where she’s been”.  But of course I thought I was being dramatic.  I turned off the radio, told her she looked like she needed me for something but that I could not read her mind so she would have to communicate.  She came closer to me (with Ms V that speaks volumes) and said she didn’t know what her mind said.

“I just feel dizzy, and I don’t know, like my body hurts.”

“Vannesa come here.” She came and stood over me.  “Who am ?”

“My Mama.”

“Do you feel safe with me?” she nodded.

“Would your mama ever hurt you?” She shook her head.

“Do you remember what happened over there?” I gestured to the dining room table.  She looked…

            I couldn’t tell if she was grinning in sheepish shame, but as the conversation continued and her denials continued, I swear she looked like I must look when meeting up with someone who has recently seen me after too much to drink.  Like, I want to act like I do remember, but I also really don’t and I’m curious to get the details.  That’s how she looked-curious.

          And so it goes.  The last thing she remembered, and vaguely at that, was writing sentences after cheating at cards.  And then she found herself in her bed.  I remembered the look of surprise or confusion when she sat up and peered at me.  Something in me clicked.  No panic, no fear, just a click of a steel lock as it unlocks into a vault of knowing: the yawning, the mental withdrawal, the never remembering what she had just done, the once upon a times that only verged on the unthinkable…The door was unlocked.

I told her what had happened and explained why her body hurt. She was so….she said,

“Wow! That must have been hard, sorry mama for your suffering.” And I almost lost it, and I wanted to lose it because, Lord FUCKING knows I reveal my trauma in delayed response and I am damn scared of when this will hit me. 

         She admitted there were times when she was somewhere and didn’t know how she got there. (Fuckfuckfuck. I am really hearing this. This is what I’m hearing)  I honestly explained the complexities of the mind-sometimes after being very scared at some point-and how it  protects the person, but reassured her this was not necessarily the case with her, only that the mind was complicated. 

         She went to bathe and found me afterwards, curled up on my bed, clutching a silent phone.  No one picked up.  She looked…sympathetic, more so than I’ve ever seen her before.

“So….how are you?” She asked, her freshly scrubbed body wrapped tightly in my Indian print house robe.

“I’m okayyyy.”

She glanced around then fell into the scoop of my body I didn’t even know was there; I curled reflexively around her until I felt her fit perfectly and knew, it would always be there waiting, whenever she would need to fall.....

Mother May I?

        Do you know how many posts I've dictated to myself in my head that went absolutely nowhere because I didn't have computer/internet access? Now my very own, brand spankin new laptop has arrived, I have access to internet 24hrs a day (if you include work) and my mind....is a blank.  

        To be honest, I think I've just gotten used to not having anyone to talk to (about anything that's really important) so the thoughts have just dried up.  

        I'm dried up.  There's such a thing as too sober, as my dear Papa has wisely stated.  The last time I saw him, a few weeks ago, he was in a desperate state, worse than I've ever seen him; I'm scared to call him now because I know my mother left him hanging and I don't want to hear the suffering in his voice.  Just when I finally got him to admit he needed her and to be willing to give her an official position at the university (instead of just milking her); it's what she proclaims she's always wanted and I finally make it happen and she abandons him like he was her own child (ha!)

        She finally arrived literally at the stroke of midnight on the eve of my daughter's ninth birthday (her first with me and without her mummy).  Earlier that night, I lay with Ms V on our empty balcony to watch the full moon traverse the trees while an outdoor concert filtered through the night air towards us.  And she said, 

        "Maybe I could just kill myself. Life is so DIFFICULT!"  and she was disturbingly calm and flippant.  It was a rough night.  Never count on my mother for anything, except that she will show up too late whenever you need her the most.  I was so broken after this shitty month in Uganda and yet by the time she showed up, I'd already pulled my shit together and moved my baby and I from the old place to our new home.  By the time she showed up, all my vulnerabilities had been tucked away behind my warrior spirit, so much so that it didn't even phase me to put my arms around my little girl's articulated ribs and hear her threaten to take away everything I have committed myself to living for.  Can you imagine? Five years; ten; fifteen years down the way, after so much loving and bonding, and FUCKING committing she may decide to let her demons win after all, and poof, it will all be gone.  I should be able to imagine since I know exactly what it feels like to have the heavy love of my mother's arms around me, but still feel empty and insubstantial enough to think it no big deal to wish myself away.  

          Besides that rather dramatic moment (in the end I dredged through the psyche that is Ms V only to find she was "afraid to fail"-we had been discussing her upcoming entrance into school-and so it goes), the most amazing part of that night was that Ms V didn't know the date so she wasn't sure when her (happy) birthday was.  I convinced her the date was August 5th and we'd missed it by 3 days-it was surprisingly easy to convince her, but in true Pollyanna fashion she said "well, never-mind anyway, but at least we have to celebrate my Happy Birthday sometime".  

rasello.com

          In the meantime, I've become a working woman.  We live exactly nine minutes brisk walk away from my job. We also live two large blocks away from the ocean, but the last block is a series of ultra-exclusive mansions that hide the view unless you walk about 10 minutes down the road to our favorite pier.  

           At night, just about now, I hear the Islamic prayers observing Ramadan, the sounds of night insects have replaced the crows and exotic day bird sounds; and then, out of the blue-the deep, deep blue, in fact-comes the bloated groan of a cargo ship at sea; it sounds to me like a plaintive yearning; a reminder of obligation and duty in it's most lonesome form. But there is something else: it sounds to me like a miracle begging to be born, magic begging to be remembered, the chance of a lifetime waiting for the perfect moment.  When I hear that sound I feel renewed in my own commitments; I've come this far, but my journey goes on; beware-the journey goes on.  I hope that sound will always affect me like that.  I want to always remember that this-right here-this is what I started.  And I am committed to carrying it on (and therein lies the miracle, right?!).

          Perhaps it is time to air out those hidden vulnerabilities.  My daughter has chosen to flirt with alienation from me.  My mother is here for a time, but it was I who had to sit her down and break all her Ego barriers apart so that she could do a decent job standing in for me as primary caretaker.  So now they are enjoying each other generously; following my orders in partnered conspiracy.  It is a painful thing to go through.  I needed her, my mother, to take some of the load off while I get into this new job, but that need has come at the price of being excluded, of losing respect.  I don't understand why, when it was my mother who was working, my daughter revered her for it and looked down on me for staying at home, and now I go to work, but it seems this too has earned my daughter's disregard (if not disdain). Frankly, I think it is the ironic fact that my mother really doesn't give a shit (and I do) that makes her the favorite.  

          In any case, plugging along warrior style just makes me a poor facsimile of my mother; I am not so cold and practical; I am not so ruthless and flippant. Both my daughter and I are flirting with separation, testing our need for each other, testing our Love for each other, hoping perhaps it is not so strong, hoping we can reverse the bond; denying our mutual commitment. Perhaps she is scared I will slip away from her, as my mother so often slipped away from me. I know I fear the indications that the journey ahead may not be as straightforward as I naively believed. I know I fear there is a burden in her heart that was there long before I came along and may be there for a long time yet.  I think we are both suspicious of the other, suspicious of the other's potential to break our hearts.  My mother is just a distraction.  This right here, this is a Transition and we are fully in the throes of it; we are suspect that what we go through in the next several weeks will determine forever; little do we know.....it's all already happened.

          I held her in the moonlight but only after letting her slip into a pit of fear and leaving her to flounder; at first I lay there alone and felt....betrayed; then it hit me: the future cannot betray you, but your present fears can; if she was not ready to fight her fears, then I would fight them for her. So I pulled her down to me, into the nest of my Love, and begged the moonlight to fill her with the heaviness of its beauty.....of its existence. I whispered,

 "Life is not difficult; Life is just Life. Who ever told you it was supposed to be different? Who ever told you it was supposed to be so simple?  I think Life is beautiful and so do you; you sing about the Joy of Life all the time baby, all the time; you don't even hear yourself; but I do. In every moment it is up to each of us to decide how we see Life-beautiful or difficult. But either way, Life is just Life.....and baby, we are ALL afraid to fail....
          
          Her tense body relaxed into me and she began to yawn,

          "Hey......guess what happens at midnight."......

  

           
        

So Much To Say, So Little Time

         No excuses.  The world is spinning and twirling and I'm flying high.  Last performance of the play tonight.  It has been such an incredible ride.  This play has seen me crawl from depths of an unexpected despair; shed some drama, some weight, some bitter scars.  My heart is new and full and as courageous as fuck.  Everyone loves me, and I love me too....like WHAT! 


        This week and next all the jobs are finally coming through.  Spent a few days shadowing at a daycare.  It's kinda unsettling how easily little babies will accept you as an authority figure and will immediately seek your approval and love.  They are SO impressionable!! It would be a wondrous responsibility to have them in my guard, and actually I did just that.  I could do it; I could handle it. Still waiting for the final word, but as far as I'm concerned I've proved myself to myself, to God (who already knew), to the world. Funny, I suspect the world may be just as impressionable as those little babies.  It will believe anything about you, that you believe. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU BELIEVE.  


         My daughter had another little breakdown after too much upheaval from her normal routine of waking up to find me there.  She admitted she does not yet believe we Love her; she still thinks we may toss her aside someday. Ha! Like God smiling down on his children, inside I smile even while I soothe her pain, because I know how false it is.  She will never lose me, and I will never let her go.  In my arms, she will ALWAYS fit.  But of course, I pray she will realize this Truth, just as I pray to realize the Truth of God's Love for me.  Nurturing and Patience are the seeds of Possibility.  

calshakes.wordpress.com

         I am the only African in the play.  All along, this fact has been a non-issue, because of the wonderful and welcoming way the cast has treated me.  But on stage, feeling the audiences' confusion at my presence-hell at my perfection in the role, I feeling my skin is on fire with their projected marvel.  I feel isolated in my blackness-a feeling I have not had to experience in many years.  But the secondary result of this is even more startling.  My mother herself, who knew I was the only black person in the play, said it was not until she saw the performance that she realized that I am an anomaly in singular racial casting.  I am not the token; I am the Lead.  She could not believe the pride she felt, and those sentiments have been explicitly echoed by other Africans; they have stayed behind to thank me in reverent and sincere tones.  Shall I write my Oscar speech now? No, of course not; but the ironic reality of living this Expat African life can be so apparent in moments such as these, you feel as if you have slipped back to a time that is usually reserved for the stage. 

xroads.virginia.edu

        An aside: you would not believe how many servant women come to collect the little babies at the school dressed in full "Mammy" uniform, complete with apron and white head scarf. It is what it is. And if I am to represent a moment of pride in my racial community, then so be it; and what joy that it should be in something I truly enjoy doing well! 


       
            I am also full of pride.  My Love that Got Away (what a lovely term, yeah? I've never known what to call him until I saw this on someone else's blog.) has embarked on a month long road trip with his daughter. This is something he has been wanting to do for so long, and its occurrence represents so many grand achievements within him.  Though I only know all this from stalking, as I am not currently accepted into his life, I cannot help but to feel so damn proud.  You go daddy! I am there with you.  The last time he threw himself out over the ledge like this, he fell right into my arms, then I fell in Love.  God knows what He's doing with this one and that is all I can say about that.




                  Dear God, You're so cool!......
          


          

A Run For The Hills (1)

              Nothing like an unexpected adventure to do what a weekend holiday in paradise, followed by some much needed time a part, still could not accomplish: we, three, are finally a bonded, harmonious, peaceful family again (fuck March) Yaaay April!! And all it took was the threat of a tsunami (why didn't I think of that?!?).


              The Little One and my mother arrived a day later than expected (which I should have expected) on Wednesday afternoon.


             I will tell you a secret: part of my anxiety at being away from the Little One, is that a.) she wouldn't miss me b.) she would find she was happier visiting her other relatives that she used to live with when her mother first died, and so my mother would decide to let them take her back c.) she wouldn't miss me AND wouldn't be happy to see me.  


             They came in soaked from the days rain, my mama looked just as shy of me as I was of my daughter, as if she goes through the same anxiety over me (and a tiny part of my mind made a note of this).  The Little One would not look me in eye; she carried a big suitcase and concentrated on trying to bring it in, ignoring my attempts to help her.  My heart did a tailspin and I did all I could to not fall on my knees in anguish.  The art of adulthood: to be falling apart inside, and on the outside, you are exchanging small pleasantries:


    "hiiiii, look you're all wet" (oh my God, she hates me).


     "Here let me help you" (damn it just give me the suitcase, great the driver's watching, can they all see it??)


      "Hi mama. Hi Little One! I missed you! Ohh you're cold, huh? (WHY won't she look at me? what's happened? What's going on?? I've completely FUCKING failed-can't let it show, must not let it show, fuck, fuck, FUCK)


      "Would you guys like some tea?....I said would you like some tea Vannesa?? (Mama says ALWAYS act like nothing is wrong-I HATE being a grown-up!)


             Well, melodrama is in the mind of the beholder. After a cup of tea, a sweet snack, and some Mindful techniques of emotional observation (did I mention I have a therapist now? She's no Guru*, but she is a good dose of "just what I needed"-God Bless!) it occurred to both of us that, "Hey, I actually still love you; and wow! You TOTALLY love me to!" A much needed separation, followed by an equally integral reunion.


             It turned out that, despite some unsettling health concerns that had been the cause for the delay, my mother was only stopping in long enough to take a shower and grab new clothes before hitting the road for an out of town workshop.  There hadn't been any power since the night before and my mother left while the building manager was trying to rectify the problem.


             We sat down to a nice meal of homemade fish and chips (a little indulgence to welcome home my Love); It must have been four o'clock so this was late lunch, early dinner.  I considered maybe taking us to the movies, but the rain (though light) didn't seem to be letting up.  Then my mobile rang; it was my mother......


             "Soooooo, I've just gotten an update on my phone, there was an earthquake in Indonesia and Dar Es Salaam is on alert for a Tsunami."


              The funny thing about me: I need a therapist to navigate the overwhelming pressures of choosing a country to settle down in, getting a job, getting a boyfriend, etc. But give me an unexpected crisis and I'm ON IT, like WHAT! I become all Peaceful and Zen. Let's recap:


 I have no power, no computer, not even batteries in the radio; 
the fridge is semi-stocked (my mother just unloaded a shitload of avocados for me to do I dunno what with so no threat of scurvy); 
I can't swim; 
Everyone I would think to call in Dar will probably be at this out of town workshop-though I probably wouldn't call them anyway; 
my mother spent the night before in the hospital after a severe migraine attack and is now on the road on a four hour journey; 
how come everyone in other natural disaster crisi (crisi? really?-blame spell check on that shit) always seem to have boats?-
I don't EVEN HAVE A BOAT!!

metro.co.uk

DISCLAIMER: Don't get me wrong. I am not in anyway dismissing the horrific, tragic, realities of natural disasters.  I am in no way trivializing the suffering that happens. I am sincerely relating my exact thoughts as I spoke to my mother about what could very well be a life-changing circumstance and looked around our house instinctively trying to spot what could be turned into a flotation device in a pinch.....to no avail.......


             

Adopting Woes

         "But how?? How d-d-do you open your heart?"  She wails.


         I respond without hesitation; I respond instinctively from some place deep within; some steel center of Divine Force. I respond while having to convince every doubtful, broken, willful bit of my being that what I speak is Truth. I have to do this with such reflexive speed that the questioning, internal healing, and resulting response leaving my lips happen in a seamless transition. We step through a portal....


          I'm beginning to understand all the horror stories I've read in adoption blogs and forums. Parents safely claim, "it only gets worse". Bitches. I understand the need for them to make this claim; having become conditioned to that first version of the child they bring home (specifically if the child is above the age of 6). What they-we-fail to comprehend is that, that first version is just a shell, a protective layer made of head-nodding obedience, and intuitive, survival-bred manipualtion  (actually, they say babies are biologically designed the same way: with large eyes and reflexive smiles, they are made to seduce us into nurturing them).  It is US who make the mistake in believing that their instinct for survival, their adaptation is some special secret saved for those that have suffered and is thus a permanent gift of theirs, a skill, a magic weapon, that they will use without guidance or teaching forever and ever as they see fit. I understand it, but I do not approve.  Having read the horror stories, and commiserating woes found in many of these forums, I am left feeling disgusted.  The laments are always the same, "she/he was so great when we brought him/her home, but now we don't know what to do?!?"  How foolish they all are when the creature grows so comfortable it lets its guard down and bites, because biting is all it knows...
         How dare we-they-be so shocked that when that loving shell cracks, inside there is a vulnerable little thing, perhaps malformed from lack of exposure to the Light. A scared, broken being, perhaps vicious from fear that you will now see it and turn away in disgust or fear-"this isn't what we were expecting".....


       Watching my child collapse in anguish has that cliche, slow motion, car crash feeling.  It is actually happening.  This is happening and everything I say to her will cement, now and forever, my emotional bond with her. Yes, it IS now and forever, because I can remember wailing out my anguish at her age, my mother holding me, and me knowing she had no FUCKING clue how to help me; she had no FUCKING clue how much of my pain was rooted in her careless behavior; she was so busy being frightened.  And that has never changed.

        
         This thought only adds to the secret fear that what I am seeing in the face of my wailing, agonizing, child is the results of a few months under my influence.  As if this fear is not damned-full enough, beneath or alongside it is the thought, "also, she does come from your blood, maybe she is just revealing the same innate flaws you daily fight with; after-all, we all know how her mother was....


         All this while, we smugly pondered at how easily the Little One has been left seemingly un-affected by her tragic circumstance.  It was easy to get used to someone who seemed to reject the natural damage of a tragic circumstance [maybe it's just as easy to get used to a daughter who has always steeped herself in mourning.  So used that you never think to pull her out of it].  It was easy to feel arrogant (even though we only lucked out) that this poor, innocent thing-innocent of her poverty-should fall into our care; as if, by her natural ability to adapt, we have proven ourselves capable.  It's been easy, and the hard part is just beginning....


          I scramble to retard the momentum of despair that is building fast; I sing the pop song* I've written her.  Even in emotional upheaval, she has time to pause, listen, and smile at me with sincere enjoyment. (I knew it was a hit) but it doesn't last for long.  As soon as the song is over her eyes go large and black again; her shoulders squeeze together while her body shudders and shakes with her cries. 
           So....I speak French;  the bits and pieces of inaccurate phrases tumble from my lips while I stroke her controrted face: "Ne pleus pas mon fils-ma fille (ma fils...damn that's not right, but it sounds a lot better-whatever she don't know); "c'est pas grave"....


       [Unless it is, unless its you crying because you want to go live with my sister and not moody, silly, me.  Unless it's you crying because the genes in your body just kicked in and this is only the tip of the iceberg. Then, I'm afraid, it might be a bit more serious- Or not? Am I so regretful of who I am, I fear the idea you might be like me someday? Hmmmm....I can't say that I am my Love.] 


       "Life is sooooo HARD!!". She is mourning for the FIRST time since the day I watched her across the grave where her mother lay while dirt was thrown on top. My sister clung to me, and even through my own tears, I could not help but notice how she cried and sniveled like a broken, little girl-except there was the little girl whose mother was disappearing, looking on, calm and serene.  


         "Well it's about fucking time isn't it", the deep steel center of me throbs this feeling out through my bones,  "Bare witness Lady: THIS. Is. Your. Job."


         Whatever is yet to heal in me has to be left for another day, my daughter is flailing herself into a pit of despair, and that isn't going to happen on my watch.  I am not going to stand back in fear.  I know, in that moment, it is up to us to decide, once and for all, how we are gonna live our lives, or else our pains/fears will decide for us:


       "No! Enough now, Vannesa! Come on, this isn't you!! Enough crying, NO! Life IS BEAUTIFUL!! Yes it is hard sometimes, okay, and yes you can cry, but then you have to stop and say ENOUGH.  It's beautiful even when it is hard, my Little One.  And sometimes we have bad days and the sad thoughts shout at us, but then you just have to shout back, with your heart (I place my hand on her thin chest and INVOKE the Will of God that what I speak be a Blessing) You have to SHOUT back with all the wonderful blessings you've had in your life, all the good memories and stories.  Come on now-"


        Her wailing has stopped, but I think-I know-it is only paused, "But how?? How d-d-do you open your heart?"


        I speak quietly now, but with feverish force-["yes, I know this is Truth-give it to her and tell your fears to shut the fuck up about it." my heart reminds me]:
        "By Loving someone; by being kind to someone who needs it (her thin arms snake their way around my neck and pull me close to her face so I have to whisper); or by being Loved or having someone be kind to you; by those moments when you let yourself feel total Peace (Relaxed Body, Easy Mind*); by seeing something beautiful-like the sunlight in your eyes, or the clouds or the trees, or a baby smiling; by laughing with a -"


      "You know what?" she whispers, "I need a book.  I have to write down everything you've ever told me.  I have to not forget."  
      "You're going to write down what I say, like I write down what you say to me?" (she nods) "Okay, that seems fair; good idea, baby."


      There is a brief stillness, "I will NEVER forget my mother." Her eyes well up again, she sounds so damn desperate.  [No, My Love, I have you now, I won't let you fall again.]  
       "Of course you won't!! No, of course not. Baby, sometimes we can open our hearts through sadness too! Through the mourning of someone we loved who is gone, through feeling the pain of someone else's loss, or the pain in the world, but only when we let that sadness teach us, and in the end we find Peace again....  And you know what?  I will never forget her either. I have learned so much about life from your stories of your mother.  I think about her everyday. Every. Single. Day.  So of course we won't forget her. Both of us.... Actually, why don't we write down in a book all the stories of your mummy also, so that we won't forget?"
       "Okay...."


        Our bond perhaps exists in our screwed up genes, or in our broken hearts-perhaps.  No matter; it will, definitely exist now in the way we choose to remember, in the stories we choose to tell, in the words we use to tell them.


         Our hands are dirty; her mother is buried; she is in my arms now; we will walk away now, and we will write our stories, because Our. Life. Is. Beautiful....