story – Page 8 – "Ready Pen…"
After being told that we would not be able to conceive, then having two miscarriages, YOU burst forth and shattered our world! Even then, without You knowing it, You brought joy into our discouraged existence.
I LOVE that You made my tummy swell with life. Every move, every kick…living, vibrant, ready to burst forth. In fact, You were so ready to come “into” our lives that You came early. I still remember Your Dad’s excitement and tears.
I LOVE Your passion. Your competitiveness. Your smile.
I LOVE that You came to me for “huggy-time”; that You laid on my lap so that I could scratch your back.
I LOVE that you defended Your Sister, even against me; that You would fight, but still be together; that You loved her; that You made her feel special; that You remember her; that You miss her.
I LOVE the love and respect You have for Your Father; that You make him feel special; that You have beautiful memories.
I LOVE that You love; how You look at her; how You touch her; how You have adventures together; how You dance.
Life has handed us a hard blow, but we are trying together, each with their own regrets, but NOT dealing with them on our own.
As it was the custom of that culture the boys in the families would help out their father tend to the land or they would be hired out to other ranchers for meager pay. However, the “dream” was to be able to go to “el norte”. That was the ultimate job! Poverty was part of life in the village, so the only way to be able to take care of ones family was to be seasonally hired to head to “el norte” for a hard job and little pay.
And so life went. Always pensive, always “away” in his mind. Not sure if that “frown” ever disappeared. Ah, but the moments he would lose himself in his writing or composing were magical. Playing the piano brought him great joy, but the melancholy of his songs was palpable.
Marriage…fatherhood…other endeavors…BUT something was always amiss.
Disappearing at the young age of forty-eight. Never to be heard from or seen. Talks of a torturous death haunt our minds. Did this really happen to you? Are you still alive?
Your hopes and dreams shattered in the canvas of life!
The realization that you are more like your Dad than you thought. Well, in all honesty, I had never even made the connection. As I ponder this, the thought nearly suffocates me. I said, “Everyone adored and respected my Dad. He always did good for everyone —— EXCEPT his own children.” I gasped…then…boom! I WAS JUST LIKE MY DAD!!!
Known, traveling, sought after, helping here and there, “rescuing”…making a name for myself. Yikes! BUT what about my children? My husband? They were being left behind…set aside. The “others” came first. My family got what was left, if anything. Everyone “loved me” when I was their “savior”. Now, I’m just a by-word. They shake their heads in unbelief and disappointment. I’ve let “them” down. I fell off the man-made pedestal.
No human being is meant to be all-things to all-people. Only God can do that. Humans disintegrate under the weight of trying to meet everyone’s needs and expectations. Humans aren’t meant to do that.
In a world of “trying-to-do-it-all”, we miss the MOST important. I am a wife to my husband. No one else can or should fill those shoes. I am “still” a mother to my remaining son (my daughter is in heaven). No one else can be or should be their Momma.
Clarity of mind in the midst of this intense fog – go figure…what a gift! So often, we come to “aha moments” too late.
Grateful, it is not to late for me!
Married at 15, having already lived a “full life”. No quinceañera, no prom, no pictures to capture the accomplishments of her life. The oldest in a large family. Her Momma always busy, sick and/or pregnant. The daily chores overwhelming for anyone, let alone a little girl. In this culture large families were the norm. The eldest would soon be helping out around the house, especially if she was a girl. She did it all, and was a Mom to her siblings, more so than their own Mother. As if the household chores weren’t enough, she would be demanded to help out tending to the land along with her Father and brothers. How did she do it all? She would say with pride, “I was like one of the boys to our Dad.” She took pride in being able to do what the boys could do, at times faster and better. So why did Dad beat her so mercilessly?
Grown up and married now, with children of her own and her own household to tend to. You’d think this would have earned her freedom from all the responsibilities of her “childhood home”. No, not in this culture. The hats just kept piling on.
There was a “hardness” about her, yet the caring soul within her managed to come through time and again. Every now and then a tear dared to escape from her eyes, almost shattering that impregnable armor. With one hard swoop she would yank it from her face in defiance and resolve not to let this happen again. Who told her she shouldn’t cry?
I wonder if all her collections were part of her “living” in a world she had never known; she had never had? There was that miniature tea set in the midst of other miniature figures. There was her collection of Monchhichis (Japanese stuffed toys) – always sitting pretty on her especially made shelves.
Everything sat pretty, clean, protected. The stuffed toys encased in plastic bags to preserve their beauty. Lots and lots of porcelain figurines, especially dolls. She would clean them with care.
What was going through her mind?
What was brewing inside of her?
Forty plus one, was the number of her years. Such a short life! She finally broke beyond repair. Unanswered questions remain…how I miss this beautiful soul!