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Show the many months following Bryan's near drowning in the pool, she spent several days week at the home of a toddler who had not been as lucky as Bryan. The boy had been riding his tricycle, chasing a bug, or the cat, or a leaf that skittered across the driveway, when a garbage truck backed over him, crushing his body, along with the seat, pedals, and handlebars. Now he no longer moved. Each day my mother would work with his mother and other volunteers to manipulate his legs and arms, willing his muscles to remember how to carry a boy. She was often in charge of his legs; for hours she would bend his knees, bend his knees, bend his knees. Three or four adults would force his limbs to crawl across the room, a feat he had seemingly outgrown. My mother's form of penance lasted until we moved the following year. I imagine that boy remains immobile. Dn the back windows of our cars, she placed a kind of mirror that allowed the^ driver to see what was behind the car when backing up. The pain of running over a child would be avoided, even if other pain could not be. For how many years did she hug Bryan tighter at night? For how many years did she dream of water and weight and the taste of chlorine? Here is the thing. What if when you look back at your childhood, when you do the painful work of recalling not the "literal" truth of what you wore that day but the "emotional" truth of how it felt to be in the corner of the kitchen, holding the broom like a weapon, your father's words pushing you deep into the wood, perhaps there is only one, what, one pole, one pylon, to lash yourself to, one way for everything to be okay. Would you be willing to knock against that pole and note the weaknesses? Or would you just keep holding on? 187 |
