Mom
I just got off the phone with my brother and I am not quite sure what to think. What’s beneath every conversation that I have with either one of my brothers is an incident that happened almost twenty-five years ago. For the longest time we called it “The Incident”.
In August of 1981 my mother was shot to death in the kitchen of our Cleveland home. In the house was my younger brother, who escaped somehow and fled to our downstairs neighbor, myself, who was in the bathroom at the time using my body to wedge between the bathtub and the door, my older brother, shot twice, and my father, shot seven times.
My mother, I believe, was shot once to the head. She is the only person that did not make it.
It’s not something that I think about everyday. There are times that I feel like I grew up normal. I have children of my own now. When I had my daughter I thought about her a lot. The resemblance of mom’s baby pictures and my daughter now is uncanny. I talk to her, but it has been some time since I went to the grave, but we talk. We, the brothers, made a promise to visit every August, but that only lasted a year. Some days it’s like it never happened. It feels like I just never had a mother. That might sound bad, but that’s being honest.
Yet, it’s there. It’s there when I talk to my brothers. It’s there when I look at my daughter. I wish that she could have given me advice on women, saw me play football, been there for the birth of my child. I wish that I could call her now, take her to dinner, or make a speech on how none of this is possible if not for my mom.
One day I was going to my mother in laws house with my family. We were on the highway and I just happened to notice that there was an exit that had a long line on each side. It was Sunday in the middle of the day, almost in the middle of nowhere, and I was thinking to myself what the hell is that all about? Almost immediately it hit me. That day was mother’s day, and the people were visiting the cemetery. I was driving and it took everything that I had to keep the car on the road. I cried so hard with my wife next to me, and my kids seated behind me.
It’s like that. That is exactly how it happens. I could be watching a movie and a scene that I did not see coming will catch me and I’ll just lose it.
My older brother was the closest to mom. We did not have a father that stayed with us every day. My father would come and visit once a month or even once every two or three months. My older brother was the man of the house. He was twelve when it happened and even after mom was gone and we moved in with other families and eventually with my father, my brother was the man of the house in both me and my younger brother’s eyes.
Today my older brother struggles to deal with the events of 1981 in a way that I cannot even begin to imagine. As a brother I don’t think that I have ever reached out to him the way that he might need. He was the man in charge so long, but now I see that he needs someone else to help him and take charge. He needs me to be there. Sometimes we act normal like we grew up like everyone else, but we didn’t. We need each other. We can save each other. We each need saving in different ways, because we have each dealt with our loss in different ways. After today’s conversation, for the first time I am hopeful.
In August of 1981 my mother was shot to death in the kitchen of our Cleveland home. In the house was my younger brother, who escaped somehow and fled to our downstairs neighbor, myself, who was in the bathroom at the time using my body to wedge between the bathtub and the door, my older brother, shot twice, and my father, shot seven times.
My mother, I believe, was shot once to the head. She is the only person that did not make it.
It’s not something that I think about everyday. There are times that I feel like I grew up normal. I have children of my own now. When I had my daughter I thought about her a lot. The resemblance of mom’s baby pictures and my daughter now is uncanny. I talk to her, but it has been some time since I went to the grave, but we talk. We, the brothers, made a promise to visit every August, but that only lasted a year. Some days it’s like it never happened. It feels like I just never had a mother. That might sound bad, but that’s being honest.
Yet, it’s there. It’s there when I talk to my brothers. It’s there when I look at my daughter. I wish that she could have given me advice on women, saw me play football, been there for the birth of my child. I wish that I could call her now, take her to dinner, or make a speech on how none of this is possible if not for my mom.
One day I was going to my mother in laws house with my family. We were on the highway and I just happened to notice that there was an exit that had a long line on each side. It was Sunday in the middle of the day, almost in the middle of nowhere, and I was thinking to myself what the hell is that all about? Almost immediately it hit me. That day was mother’s day, and the people were visiting the cemetery. I was driving and it took everything that I had to keep the car on the road. I cried so hard with my wife next to me, and my kids seated behind me.
It’s like that. That is exactly how it happens. I could be watching a movie and a scene that I did not see coming will catch me and I’ll just lose it.
My older brother was the closest to mom. We did not have a father that stayed with us every day. My father would come and visit once a month or even once every two or three months. My older brother was the man of the house. He was twelve when it happened and even after mom was gone and we moved in with other families and eventually with my father, my brother was the man of the house in both me and my younger brother’s eyes.
Today my older brother struggles to deal with the events of 1981 in a way that I cannot even begin to imagine. As a brother I don’t think that I have ever reached out to him the way that he might need. He was the man in charge so long, but now I see that he needs someone else to help him and take charge. He needs me to be there. Sometimes we act normal like we grew up like everyone else, but we didn’t. We need each other. We can save each other. We each need saving in different ways, because we have each dealt with our loss in different ways. After today’s conversation, for the first time I am hopeful.
posted by The Sonflower at 3:50 PM
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