I Miss You Cousin

How is it that we lose touch with some of the people who most impacted our lives in profound ways when we were children? Do we "grow up?" Move away? Have lives so different we no longer recognize the little girl we once were? Can we dare try to find that innocence once again?

She was intelligent even at a very young age. Pretty, clever, funny, and imaginative. She was world-traveled and an army brat. She could be bossy, demanding, and opinionated. She was my cousin Anna, and there was nobody I adored more when I was a child.

When you are the daughter of mental illness, life throws harsh reality your way. You need to find ways to cope; to deal with the anxiety that has overtaken life. Every day is an adventure. Sometimes a most fearful one. But when you are fortunate to have imagination, and someone to share the journey, the road can be smoother, even easier. My cousin was that someone.

Anna and I could find adventure in the simplest places. Our Italian Nonna had a button box. You know the type. Little round tin with assorted bits of brick-a-brack, buttons of all shapes and sizes, old zippers, and sewing implements. We turned those buttons into pint-sized people. They were our family and had trials that were easily overcome. Our Nonna was the "Queen" button; the biggest, prettiest one with a faux diamond in the center. She ruled over our little world much like she did in our real lives. For Nonna was a constant. A soothing presence in the storms surrounding us.

We cut out super hero pictures from comic books and had daring rescues as Wonder Woman and Super Man escaped the evil clutches of whatever rogue assailed them.

We took old grape crates that our grandfather received his stock of fruit- of -the -vine for wine making. We jumped into them and imagined that we were visiting "The Old Country," the place that our grandparents spoke of often as if it was magical.

We pretended to be other people in other places, always with an outcome where good triumphed over evil.

As we grew into teenagers, we spoke of love and boys. And we were in love with every one of them. We made silly, clever questionnaires with all sorts of scenarios, and dared one another to answer truthfully. And we talked late on sleepover nights, sharing our future plans, hopes, and dreams.

How is it that we haven't spoken in years?

I miss Anna. I remember missing her like this when she and her family would move away for the Army. I would pine for her and write letters awaiting the day she would return once again. And she always did. Though as we grew older, it would take a little time to feel comfortable with each other. But once we did, we began to reminisce about the childhood we shared, and started laughing hysterically over long-forgotten memories.

I hope life has been exceptionally good to my cousin. I pray she has been blessed. I may even gather the courage to locate her in the upcoming weeks. She couldn't have gone far. After all, a bond from such wonderful days long past, can never be broken.

Birthday Cakes and Snowflakes

Childish wonder. A cake, all sparkles and rainbow colors. Dozens of candles flicker only to blown away moments later. A little girl dreams, then becomes.

When did we lose the sense of wonder? Why must it fade as we grow older?

I watch my niece, Elena, as she shakes a favorite blanket in a sunlit living room. Hundreds of dust motes glisten in the air, and she exclaims, "Look! Snowflakes!" She tries to catch them in chubby, outstretched hands, her face aglow with the innocence of childhood and imagination.

I, too, once imagined. Grape crates my grandfather had for the wine he made became a magical transportation device for my cousin and I. We saw ourselves whisked away to the legendary place he and my Nonna always spoke of: The Old Country.

Playground sliding boards became mountains to climb, as a beloved friend and I had make-believe adventures, running from pretend villains. Buttons, toothpicks, and countless cutouts from the paper became "people" and had marvelous scenarios to be played out.

Oh yes, I can remember it all, and I long for it once again. Perhaps that's why I love to write. For I can pretend in my mind for a short while. The worlds of heroes, villains, good and bad all come to life on a page. Talking cats and mice, love and happily ever after become a reality in my world as if I, too, were a small child watching with wonder as it all unfolds.

Oh, to be younger. To have a whole life before us once more. Never underestimate the gift of imagination and pretend. Play with all your heart with a child, grandchild, niece or nephew. Become, one more time, a princess, fairy queen, wicked stepmother or even a frog. Then you, too, can happily dream of birthday cakes and snowflakes with outstretched hands and hearts.

Wide-eyed wonder

Small, chubby legs run toward the young lady dressed as a princess. The biggest hug follows. She is meeting one of her most beloved characters.

 Wide-eyed wonder in everything she sees. A little girl takes time to smell the flowers, build a birds nest from colorful Easter grass she places carefully in a bush. "The birds need this," she says, while she puts bits of purple flowers, pieces of twigs, even a fresh, red strawberry to entice the nesting creatures. "Shhh, be quiet," she says, "we don't want to scare them away."

She proudly clutches her Easter basket to her, filled with brightly colored plastic eggs as if it's the greatest treasure on earth. She bites the head from a chocolate bunny and stains of delicious brown rim her cherub's mouth.

She holds her dolly, her favorite crocheted blanket near her heart; some of her first possessions in this world. The blanket, a bit worse for wear, lovingly washed many, many times, her soothing refuge.

She slips on plastic sparkly princess shoes and a summertime dress and twirls around singing songs in a voice sounding like the world's most adorable Walt Disney character.

She climbs in my lap, something has frightened her. I soothe her with nonsensical words and make her giggle. The sound is the most melodious music, the singing of angels.

She knows nothing of the troubles of this world, not yet, not now. Her thoughts are of comfort, kids movies, dollies, singalong songs, magic. Her little plate, not yet full, holds a future, a smorgasbord of adventure, blessings, love and laughter. And for now, she is content in a mother's lap, a father's embrace, a grandmother's kiss.

She is a little girl and in her heart, she always will be.

 

Childhood Innocence

The little blonde-haired girl looked up at me, sparkling blue eyes on a face filled with wonderment. "Aunty Kar," she said in a voice much like the sweetest Disney character ever. "I wanna be a princess for trick-or-treat." I knelt down, giving her a hug,  remarking on what a wonderful idea that was. My heart cracked for her, this innocent little child, my niece, Elizabeth, three years old. What will life hold for her, what's in store? No matter what path she may take as she grows, right here in this moment, she's a little princess in her mind.

We played in an old-fashioned sprinkler, turned to its lowest setting since her baby sister only likes it that way. We splashed in the puddle on the sidewalk, wetting our bare feet, the three of us, giggling as if it was only us. A special, heartfelt moment for me, seeing their smiles, these two little girls, feeling their joy in the simpleness of the day. Warm sunshine surrounded us, bees buzzing in the nearby zinnias, my father's prized flowers. The youngest, Elena, a face full of awe, reached toward the delicate blossom at one point, and I gently guided her to lovingly caress the flower, to be careful so we could enjoy it, especially since we didn't want to upset Pappy. A little child can understand beauty and want to care for it, for she stroked the petals with her chubby little fingers as if petting a small animal.

In moments like these, I thank God above for becoming an aunt. Though I'm not a grandparent yet, I know what it must feel like to have that special bond for your grandchildren. I understand the innocence, awe and amazement these precious little ones feel as they experience life for the first time.

May they both blossom like the beautiful flowers. May their lives be whole and good, blessed and loving. May they come to know God and goodness. And may I be there with them as they grow, teaching and guiding, playing and learning from them what its like to be innocent again.

I love you Elizabeth and Elena.

Times like these

     We live our lives in a hurry.  Our childhood rushes by in a blur of smudged sidewalk chalk, scabby knees and sleepovers.  The teen years flow into adulthood through acne covered angst and countless nights of wondering if the phone will ring.
     So when did I get to this age?  This so-called mid life age?  Wasn't my mother always supposed to be the protector, the grown up?  When did she become so fragile, so broken, salt and pepper hair thinning, skin beginning to crinkle?  Wasn't she always going to be there for me?  I need you now mom.  I am baking Easter Bread.  Don't you remember how many eggs go into the recipe?
     But she doesn't remember.  She is beginning to forget.  She needs her family, her children around her more than ever.  Now I am the parent, the comforter.  I am the grown up.  I didn't ask for this, but here it is in plain sight.   No escaping the inevitable.
     One thought rises above the confusion, the fear during times such as this.  My Lord God will provide.  He will be there to carry us through this dark, confused time.  He will never leave us nor forsake us.  I can rest in these promises.
     Allow me to slow down, Lord.  Allow me to enjoy every moment with Mom.  Allow me to be thankful for all the wonderful years with her. 
     The phone rings.  It is her!  And I can still make her laugh!  Yes, I am very, very thankful.

Everyone has a story

     My mother has always said:  Everyone has a story. I found that to be true. Do you watch people around you, really watch them?  Do you listen though, as they speak?  This perhaps is  most difficult to do.  For I think when we pause, letting another person tell you their story, then we can truly walk a bit in their shoes, seeing where they come from.
     He was the strange man in the neighborhood.  People referred to him as "mildly retarded" in those days.  It was back in the late sixties.  I was eight years old.
     My girlfriend and I would be playing outside.  Whether it was bike riding, hopscotch, countless games of pretend, we would see him walking toward us in the distance.
     "Run," we would say in unison, "Hide."  For we knew to be cornered by Terry would mean at least an hour of his tragic, neighborhood stories.  He had no friends, nobody to talk with. 
     I asked my mother about him.  She was living in her own world of depression in those days.  Yet she said something which surprised me.  She asked if I would try being kind to him.  Let him talk instead of running away when he appeared.
     "Easy for you to say," I thought.  She wasn't the one who had to stand there and listen as he droned on and on about the sadness going on behind our neighbor's closed doors.
     No matter what Mom was going through in her life, she never failed to be compassionate.  It was something she instilled in me at a very early age.  She was trying to turn me into a listener.  An observer of the world.  In doing so, I would learn so much more than what outward appearances showed.
     The next time Terry appeared, I let him talk.  He hardly made eye contact as he told us about an old lady down the block, and the ambulance that whisked her away.  He seemed to only speak of the bad things going on around us.  But he seemed grateful to have a listening ear.
     The more I thought about it, Mom was right.  My young heart broke for this man, this tragic soul who had nobody except his family to care what he talked about.
     I stopped running, and started listening.  Daily he would rattle on and on with his stories of sorrow.   I saw the world as Terry was seeing it, through a heart and soul of a man who would never really be a man.
     Years later, I would think of him, wondering what had happened to him.  I know he changed me in many ways as a person.   He taught me compassion.  He taught me patience.   It was this compassion and patience that would stick with me all my life; truly listening when people tell their own stories. 
     I hope Terry had a good life.