Centering

Perched at the top of some steps that lead down into the basement of my Aunt Mary’s house, head in my hands, elbows on my knees, I’d worked myself into a jag, hiccup-sobbing to the point of not being able to quit. My cousin Sandy kept pleading with me to stop crying, but I couldn’t. The floodgates had broken. I was no longer riding the wave; it was riding me. You would think my parents had abandoned me, when, in actuality, they were going out to a quiet dinner with old friends. But young and alone, in a different state, in a strange environment, around unfamiliar family, it felt like I had been orphaned. My parents were my centering. Safety. Still are in many ways.

So today when Essie clung desperately to me in our driveway, despite several persuasive attempts on my parents’ part to take her and Abby around the High Desert for the day, I just couldn’t bring myself to force her to go. I tried at first, but as much as I was practically salivating at the idea of having the day almost completely to myself, the memory at Aunt Mary’s hung above me like a heavy cloud, and I couldn't make her go. I wouldn't let her go.

“Do you want to go with Papa and Grammy and have fun, or not?”

“Not!”

[Long sigh] “Okay, little one, you don’t have to go; you can stay here with Mama.”

And if there were a way to make her stay with me forever, I'd find it.