The door was closed. I stood, a small girl child of five, facing it. My index finger traced the swirling wood patterns that adorned the door. Mesmerized, I silently pleaded to its uncaring smooth surface. Please, please, please open.
In the background the soft hum of children and their teachers filled the hallway. Like a malevolent eye, the bright burnished doorknob stared at me. I was late. If only Mom hadn’t made me eat that last bit of soggy, messy cream of wheat. I had stared at it for hours before finally putting that last spoonful in my mouth. And, it made me late. I abruptly sat down in front of the door, wrapping my arms around my stomach.
I shook. Just turn the doorknob. That’s all I had to do. It was so easy. Inside my classmates were holding gerbils, finger painting, listening to stories, or maybe, practicing the alphabet. I could be with them singing songs or dancing the “Hokie Pokie.” I could. I could open the door.
Once again, I put my hand on the burnished doorknob. But, I would be alone—the last one. They would turn and see me. Everyone would know I was late. A tear trickled down my face. Mrs. Taylor’s face always smiled, but she would frown . . . at me. I gasped. Tears poured down my face. What should I do? I stood frozen.
My fevered mind looked for some solution. Maybe, maybe, my mommy could open the door. I looked longingly towards home. Maybe . . . she cares enough. . . Trying not to think I ran across the street, running home, not looking for cars, knowing my mother could save me. She stood in the kitchen, my Mom, suds to her elbows as she washed the last of the breakfast dishes, humming to herself.
“Cynthia,” she said. “Why are you home?”
“The door was closed,” I said. “Will you open it for me?” My shoulders tightened, as I searched her eyes. I can’t go back by myself. I can’t. I can’t.
“Yes,” she said, simply. I let out a deep sigh of relief, my body relaxed.
Mom dried her hands on her apron. She took my hand. We walked across the street and opened the door.
Weekly Anamnesis
*I wrote this for a creative writing class in 1999.
15 comments:
aaahhh!! how sweet.
Thank you (blush)
Cynthia, you have touched some very painful memories...
Exceptional writing!
Thank you endment. :-) I couldn't get anyone interested in publishing this one... Their loss
I just felt for that wee girl! You have written a child's pov very well - not an easy thing to do
I hope that one day soon, you and your mom will be able to "let out a deep sight of relief," say "yes" to each other and hold hands again. Your birthday is around the corner. Just a thought. Love you!
chiefbiscuit... thank you. It is one of those memories that I remember very well. :-)
Colonials... :-) some things may not be meant... but I will probably see the fam. this summer. Remember Calvin? He's getting married.
Hi Cynthia,
Childhood insecurities, a universal story.
oh yea Belle.. :-)
oh how beautifully written...i have seen what you write in myself and in my kids...fear of what we shouldn't but somehow does..i'm so glad your mom was there to hold your hand figuratevely and physically...
Chana.
Thank you. :-) I have had a few rounds with my mother, but this time she really came through for me.
Very nicely done. :)
Thank you goofyj.. and thanks for coming by. :-)
That was well written. (I was just in your home state recently.)
hi Karen.. Thank you. So what where you doing in Nevada??? LV or Reno?
Post a Comment