Innocence and Adoration

I had myself convinced that I didn't need her and she was just a poison. Mostly, I don't miss her. I found a recording of her singing with so much passion and sadness that it made unintentional tears fall. But I miss the mommy that tucked me into bed and sang me to sleep. I need her so bad....... I need the warm feeling that her love gave to me, if there's anything there still at all. 

My memories of having a whole family are so soft and secure, even when tragedy was befalling me. I miss coming home from school to a fresh loaf of bread my mom had baked, still warm from the oven with a thin layer of butter on it. I miss locking myself in her closet while everyone was playing to wear her high heals and smell her perfume. I would pull down the large box of change that my parents had saved for vacation and wiggle my fingers down under the cold coins until my hand was completely buried. 

I would move to the deepest part of the closet, under my dad's dress shirts and hide against the wall as I slipped on his huge rubber boots. I would run my fingers across the white metal bars above my head and they would sing to me. I was happy to just lie there and smell the carpet that was infused with my parents' smell. And sometimes I would even sneak various items from my dad's office into my sanctuary and spend hours observing them.

Then I would transpire from my cave back into there bedroom, and rest my head on one of the cold, wooden banisters that extended from the corners of their king bed and trace my fingers over the fancy carving, working my way to the very bottom, where the wood met the carpet. I would lie on my back and thrust myself under the bed and reach through the holes in the box springs because the air inside was always a little cooler and I liked that. 

Several times a week I would open the chest at the end of their bed and pull out my mom's wedding dress. It was so beautiful, encrusted with shiny jewels and pearls and poofy shoulders. It was the most lovely item of clothing I had ever held in my hands. It smelled of the old musty wood and love notes at the bottom of the box. 

I loved sneaking into my dad's office that was off limits. It smelled thickly of his the fancy tobacco that he would smoke in the evenings while he chatted on the phone to his brothers. I would glide my fingers across his grandfather's antique encyclopedias, collecting a thick layer of dust on my fingers. And playing with his Mt. St. Helen volcanic ash never got old, and the fineness of the powder caused it to move in a very intriguing way that I still haven't gotten over.

After the bookcases lost my interest I would pick up the small cardboard box of my dad's agates he had collect over his many years spent searching in Yellowstone and lick them so they would turn into an opaque glass with ripples through them. And I would hold them up to the window until I found my favorite one. 

At night we would sit on the steps of the porch while my parents rocked together on the porch swing and we would watch the sun set as we ate fruit. In the summer, my favorite was watermelon. The juices would leave a sticky beard from my lack of etiquette as the coolness of the night set in and the mosquitoes started to buzz followed by the passing of the loud mosquito sprayers that crawled down the city roads in the evenings. 

I loved examining the old wooden school desks with initials carved in them where I learned my multiplication tables and how to write my name in cursive. I would dip my fingers into the built in well that once upon a time was used as an ink holder and pretend that I was Laura Engles. I would lift the top of the desk up to look at my neatly stacked, shiny books. And I loved learning everything and how proud my parents were of me because I always got every answer right. 

Some days when my mom was doing laundry I would sneak into the laundry room during the middle of the cycle and lie across the washer and dryer waiting to empty them because my parents would let me keep the money that I found. The money that they purposefully left in their pockets after noticing all my efforts to look for it. And I would usually buy a barbie with it that I would never play with because I already had a whole town packed away in giant clear containers in the sun room that attached the washing room to the rest of the house. 

And when my dad said it was time for bed I knew he was giving me a head start. I would run as  fast as I could up the stairs and shut my door, and then run into the closet and shut the door. My heart would start to pound because I could hear him stomping up the stairs singing, "Fe, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an English mum. Be he red or be he in bed!" Then it would get silent and the door knob would twist and he would look in, pretending not to find me. When I was sure he had given up, he would reach under the pile of clothes I had thrown over me and pull me out by my feet, throwing me onto the bed and tickling me just enough not to make me mad. Then he would tuck the covers around me and place his hand on my forehead and pray over my dreams. After a peck on my cheek, he would rise off the side of the bed and flip my light on, and leave for work for the night. 

Nothing ever felt out of place or cold as long as they were around. They'll probably never understand how much I adored them either. And I wish that time hadn't stolen that adoration of a shy little girl that woke up in a new world every day.