Rain settled in, tapping against my window pane. Thunder crackled in the opaque sky as I walked over to your bedside and stroked your cheek. You were sick with the measles. I dabbed calamine lotion all over your red spots. You cried from the itching taking place throughout your body. Gazing up at me with you amber eyes, you yelled, “Mom, get them off of me. Get them off of me.”
“They’ll go away when they’re supposed to, my dove. Calm yourself. Remember to have fait they’ll go away a little at a time,” I sighed, while feeling the fire burning from within your forehead.
Running over to the medicine cabinet, I took out the bottle of child’s asprin. I gave you one with a glass of cool water. I put a cold damp cloth on top of your forehead to soothe you. Three hours went by. I put the thermometer into your mouth. Your temperature was 101 degrees. Two more hours went by. I took your temperature again. Your temperature went down to 99 degrees.
I entered your bedroom the next morning. Your were dancing around and singing Kiki Dee’s song, I’ve Got The Music In Me.
I laughed, “My little dove, what am I going to do with you?”
Turning around, you smiled, “Today is a new day, mother. I’m going to learn how to fly across the desert. I will become one with the heavens above.”
Walking over to your closet, I hung up your clothes I held in my arms. I glanced up at your bookshelf and removed your baby book. Patted the spot next to me on your bed. “Come, my little dove. Sit with me for a while. I want to show you something.”
“What is it, mother?” You skipped over to your bed, and sat next to me as I opened the pages of your baby book.
“Do you remember this day?” I asked while pointing to the photos of my little doves third birthday. She wore a powdered blue pleated short sleeve dress. Staring down at the cake with a sparkle in her eyes, she clapped her hands as her grandmother lit the candles.
“You were such a happy little thing,” I said solemnly, while glancing up at her, “What went wrong? Why don’t you like birthday’s like you did when you were a small child of three, my little dove?”
“I’m too old for birthday’s, mother. I’d rather forget them,” she stammered bluntly while getting up from her bed, and storming out of her bedroom.
I followed her into her hall. “Ever since your grandmother died two years ago, you don’t celebrate, my little dove.”
She turned to me with her puffy wet eyes. “She died. There’s nothing more to say. If only…” She choked on her words while tears streamed down her face.
“You were eleven years old trying to be an adult. But it was too soon for you to learn how to do certain some things,” I sighed while putting my arms around her, bring her close to my shoulder where she rested hear weary head.
“I remember running out into the driveway. She followed after me. It was such a beautiful afternoon. I ran across the street to pick grapes from the neighbor’s vineyard, and tossed some into my mouth,” she sobbed while rubbing her face into my shoulder.
I felt the wetness from her tears as they soaked into the fabric of my shirt. Putting my hand to her cheek, I looked her directly into her eyes. “You need to forgive yourself. What you did was an accident.”
“She walked up to me, flung the grapes out of my hands, and gave me some harsh words. You remember her always preaching how it was wrong to do this or wrong to do that. But I only wanted some grapes,” she pulled away from me, walked over to the corner and leaned her forehead against the wall.
I approached her, and put my hand on her shoulder. “She told you how it was wrong to steal. You need to find peace.”
She turned around and shrieked, “I ran over to the neighbor’s mailbox, picked up a rock and threw it at her. She fell backwards upon taking a blow to the head from the rock.”
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016