TheBanyanTree: Silver Streak

[Maria Gibson]

As a child I was very attached to my mother.  I worried constantly that 
something would happen to her and she would leave me high and dry and 
with no one to care for me but an asshole step father.  One day at 
school right after moving to NC, we lived on  the beach across the 
bridge, a teacher asked what we'd do in the event of a tornado warning.  
I fantasized right then and there that I would race from the school, 
down the street many, many blocks, cross the bridge and run to the 
little yellow house with my mother in it.  Funny thing though, my mother 
wasn't often in the little yellow house.  She worked some fierce hours 
trying to make sure we had food at all times and was rarely home.  
Still, I knew if the world came to an end the only thing I'd want to see 
with my last focus was her face.  The last scent I wanted to depart 
earth with was the scent of her warm neck when she had a hug for me.  My 
mom hugged me a lot when she was home.  And even if the world didn't 
stop revolving or a rampant fire destroy all of mankind, my world would 
have ended had she suddenly gone from my life.  I worried a lot about it.

 From my mother whom I held that wild love for for a long time, my 
anxiety branched to reach my husband and children.  As I moved from 
child to parent my worries became less focused on my mother and bloomed 
into a wildflower field of worry.  I'd have dreams that Randy would be 
killed or just up and die.  I worried that my children would be 
kidnapped and tortured or raped and murdered.  I hated for them to cross 
the street just knowing that a giant truck with children stick figures 
scratched on the grill was waiting to mow them down and add two more to 
that dire line up.  When my husband was late I bit my nails to the quick 
thinking the car was in a ditch somewhere and he was bleeding from his 
head and ears and wondering why I wasn't there to be with him.  He went 
to a combat zone and I nearly lost my mind with the sure knowledge that 
he was going to die and it would be my fault for not doing everything 
humanly possible to save the father of my children from that fate.

I'm not sure when these worries died down to the nothings that they 
were.  But I can tell you that it was over a year ago when I began to 
worry for another.  I wondered as to the fate and happiness of her and 
asked myself who she was.  Why didn't I know her better?  Was she going 
to blow away in the breeze like hapless dandelion seeds having never 
known anything more?  Who was going to save her from herself and the 
world at large?  To whom could she run, what bridge did she have to 
cross for a familiar feeling of home and safety of herself as a person?  
When could she cross the street safely?

I look down the streets and see trucks everywhere waiting to get me.  
Still, I must cross them.  The roads lead to places I am unsure of and 
in which I am blind.  It is dark and scary but I can't call for my 
mother or bury my face in the neck of my husband or the freshly washed 
hair of my babies.  I am on my own.  I am alone.  Seventeen years under 
my mother's wing, loving her with a burning need for her continual 
presence, fearing her abandonment.  Twenty-five years wrapped in the 
arms of my husband, fearing his demise and the snuffing out of the 
bright flames which are my children.  Forty-two years of living for 
others, fearing for others.  Now I begin a new time of fear and it is 
lonely.  Moving from this place to the detriment and pain of those 
around me, moving to a place for one.  Moving the tangibles; a bed, a 
lamp and a couch.  Walking from room to room in my little place and room 
to room in my heart, mind and soul touching the intangibles as if they 
are braille.  I understand how it can be the best and the worst of times 
as I stumble through the duality of this situation.  I fear that I will 
wound more than I fear being wounded.  I fear leaving loneliness in my 
wake more than the sure lonely times ahead.  I fear that when I finally 
know who she is that no one else will know her.  I fear this most of all.

What will become of me?

Maria