It was just like any other Thursday, or so I thought. “Come on, you’re not going to school today” said mum. Excited at this prospect, I also felt apprehensive. My Mother had a habit of doing things like this and being unpredictable. This time her unpredictability was positive.
“Do up your seat belt; don’t want to get into trouble.” She leant over and tugged it across me, a little too sharply. In my young mind this set off a warning bell, but not knowing how to verbalize, let alone even understand my growing fear, I pushed it to the back of my mind and settled into the spirit of the day: a day off school with my Mum!
Burnham-on-Crouch read the sign. “We’re getting out here” mum instructed as she parked the car in the promenade car park. Clambering out of the car, I felt excited now I could see we were by the sea. And yet the grey sky pressed down, pale light illuminating a church towering at the end of the sands. I followed Mum towards it, but found I couldn’t keep up; she was striding ahead too quickly. This wasn’t what I expected, I wanted a picnic—isn’t that what most people did when they went for days out by the sea?
I caught up with her when she stopped outside the church, mumbling to herself. I saw her wet eyes and slipped my hand into hers; she grasped it and looked down at me, as if she hadn’t seen me before.
“Here’s where your father proposed to me—he got down on one knee.” I didn’t know what proposed was, but it sounded like a bad thing because she looked angry. Mum was quiet for a long time after that, twisting the gold ring around her left finger, lips moving silently. Slipping away I headed down to the sands. Humming my favorite nursery rhyme I dug a stick into the sand, making pretty circles. What seemed like a dogs whimper made me look back. There was no dog anywhere, only Mum—this time grasping her hands together, head thrown back to the sky. I sensed to leave her alone, afraid what my interruption might do to her, and to me.
I couldn’t wait any longer. Heading back to the church I whined; “Mum, I’m hungry, and I need the loo.” Silent once again, she stood swaying gently, lips moving more rapidly than before. My words sounded loud and I felt scared again, wondering what their effect would have on her. She gathered me into her arms, whispering into my hair; “But I’ve got you, and that’s all that matters now. We look after each other, eh?”
“Yes Mum” I parroted, careful to make my voice genuine. This was what normally happened and I knew how to behave when those words were spoken. Mum would follow a pattern: talk about dad, show me some affection and then if I agreed with her, I’d get mashed potato and baked beans for dinner!
“Let’s get you home” she said. “Shall I make you your favorite tea?” We walked together, hand in hand, leaving that church and my circles in the sand behind. Late afternoon sunlight had started to slip through the grey.
“Mum, can I go to school tomorrow?” She smiled and nodded as she re-strapped me into the car, more gently than before.
Photo Credit
Holding Hands – Wikimedia Creative Commons
First Posted At Liz Cleere
Guest Author Bio
Rebecca Hall
Rebecca Hall is an unconventional British girl with a degree in International Relations, the wrong side of 35 who finds herself living in the unconventional country of Greece. She’s traveled to, lived and taught in various places around the globe. All experiences have helped to shape who she is today. Not following any particular ‘isms’ or ‘ologys’ – she has her own thoughts and feelings and writes about them in her blog: www.leavingcairo.blogspot.com
Around her EFL teaching job in Athens, she is also writing a book and hopes 2012 will be the year it finally gets finished and, better still, published!
Blog / Website: www.leavingcairo.blogspot.com
Recent Guest Author Articles:
- Empowered to Advocate: How to Become the Voice for the Silent
- How to Build a Celebration-Ready Wine Cellar
- Wander, Discover, Reflect: My Most Surprising Finds in Las Vegas
- Creating Meaningful Connections: What Ecosystems and Families Teach Us About Belonging
- How Breathwork Creates a Pathway Through Trauma: Beyond Traditional Approaches
Please Share Your Thoughts - Leave A Comment!