There is a painting hanging in my kitchen. It was given to me by the woman I bought this house from. She was a single mother too. She raised three children in this house. We bonded almost immediately and dealt with most of the sale transaction without the realtor. We preferred it that way; we knew each other’s story. She knew what a stretch buying the house was for me.
Somehow the painting survived the fire and was the first thing I took out the morning after. When I was picking out paint and counter tops and flooring and cabinets I kept that painting in my mind. It’s a picture of a mother and a son in a kitchen like mine. In a framed picture on the wall behind them is an angel. I loved the notion of an angel looking out for us as we get through these single parenting days.
Last week I found out that her son committed suicide. The night before I found out, I had a nightmare about a boy trying to climb my stairs and come into my bedroom. He couldn’t get in and I couldn’t help him.
I don’t know what that dream meant or it’s significance, if any, towards the death of that young man.
All I know is that my heart aches for that woman. For her loss.
My heart aches for that young boy. It wonders if he is trying to come home and can’t find his way because his house burnt down and this one is not the same. Parts of it are still here. His bedroom is now my oldest daughter’s room. Above it is a walk-in attic. There is a small door in my bathroom that leads the way to that little room. It is exactly the same as it has been for one hundred years. Only the insulation has been changed. There are little drawings on the walls that I imagine him making as a young boy hiding away in that room.
Sometimes late at night I sit in that room. I count my blessings and give thanks that we all survived that fire and that a little bit of the house I fell in love with is still here.
And lately? Lately I sit in that room and have quiet conversations with that boy. Hoping he has found some peace, that whatever hurt he had in his heart has gone away. I ask him to take care of his mother and his siblings. To give them strength.
I found some of his toys in the garden as I unearthed years of weeds and debris. I put them all in a box and they sit in that room too. I hope he finds his way there, his old home where he had childhood and love and family.
Photo Credit
“Hovering feather”Magnus A. @ flickr.com. Creative Commons.
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Thank you very much, it has haunted me, but i hope as time passes there will be some healing for the mother.
A beautiful story, Jess. You have given an amazing gift to a lost soul. As the mother of a son with depression, it breaks my heart for that mother, but warms it too that you are looking out for her and her child.
My heart is with you tonight wishing the family peace and strength.