Home

There is a part of all of me that will forever be twelve, scabby knees and braces.

I can close my eyes and vividly remember the freedom of riding my bike to the pool in the summertime. It was the first time I’d been allowed to go any distance at all unsupervised and I reveled in the freedom of it. I know in my memory the feel of the sun and the smell of the dry South Texas wind. I can hear the sound of my own voice singing out over the sound of wheels and bike chain.

In the deep places in my mind, I can hear the voice of my mother chatting gaily on the phone with her sister, laughing that grown-up laugh when things are delightfully off-color and then whispering and giggling when I walked into the room. I know with certainty the smell of her perfume and the touch of her hand as it brushed my mop of hair off my forehead and out of my eyes. I can still feel the warm, dry press of her lips against my cheek and hear the whisper of “I love you” in my ear.

My memory resounds with the deep tones of my father singing on the way home from Mass and how safe it felt to sit beside him on the couch, watching the John Wayne movies I hated just content to sit there and be his girl. I recall his sourdough pancakes on Saturdays, and him laughing the first time he heard me say a bad word, and then even harder when I pleaded with him to not tell Mom.

I remember Christmas, the giant tree with its colored lights, and how Santa Claus always came while we were at Midnight Mass. I know in my mind the sound of my parents’ voices singing carols and my father hefting me up into his arms to carry me to bed after I fell asleep on the couch.

There is a part of me which will forever be twelve and want to climb back into my memory. To live again in a world where I was loved and adored and the “good child.” A time back before the world exploded.

All I wanted for Christmas was to be again someone’s child for a moment. To be again their beloved girl, carefree and cared for.

I fell asleep this afternoon with the baby thinking that, for some things, the price is too dear. I awoke while dreaming in that confusing way where the dream seems real. Mom’s throaty cackle wafted up from the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon rolls. For that brief second I was home again, warm and cozy. God gave me that unexpected gift of a trip back to childhood. It was all I really wanted for Christmas. I guess my Father came through for me after all.