It’s Sunday. This morning over eggs and bacon, I informed the family I’d be going on a long walk, as I often do. Did anyone want to go? They normally don’t. No. No. No. My husband would out of kindness or duty, but honesty would keep him home, too. I do appreciate the gesture, though.
I haven’t left the table, but an acute awareness of the difference between my children’s childhoods and my own has joined us there. I have a poor memory, but can’t remember receiving or declining any invitation, ever - to hang out with my parents, go to the lake, or anything that would have gotten a quality timer out of the house to spend quality time with a parent or anyone, really.
I mention my observation, and they mention theirs. Like I’m a girl, and of course I didn’t walk with my Mom, because my Mom can’t walk.
It’s a fair attempt at humor because they know that wasn’t always the case. But, it is true. They have never known my Mom as a person who could walk.
I can’t help but realize, again, that my oldest son is 16-years-old. The same age I was when my Mom had a car accident that left her paralyzed from the chest down. The same age I became a nurse, caregiver, grocery shopper, meal preparer/food-picker-upper, and a grown-up. My brother was between the ages my other sons are now, and he could say the same.
But now, I actually am a grown-up. I am 43-years-old. The same age my mother was when she had the accident that claimed her mobility.
Sitting across the table from one another at these ages feels significant. A little like a bell ringing from the outside in. Like being at an intersection with the same street names in a different city. Like a breathing time machine, as I heard in a song while making breakfast.
I left for my walk in a new and unexpected headspace. I paused at my normal turn around spot to jot a few things down, and didn’t turn around there at all.
I kept walking, thinking about all of the Prom pictures flooding my Facebook feed and remembering my own. I marvel at the beauty of the girls, their dresses, the backdrops, and Moms with cameras.
I wore a handmade dress, lovingly made by my stepmom with red shoes to match. I took pictures at the end of a hallway and in a living room, before and after the one hour drive to visit my Mom who was still in the Rehabilitation Hospital, so she could see us in all of our glory. No one had cameras there.
It would be another month before she would come home in her wheelchair and enter our house using the ramp the Knights of Columbus built while she was away.
Twenty-seven years have passed. My Mom still battles with her body to stay well and a 16-year-old still wants to make sure his brothers did their share of the dishes, to make sure that everything is fair. Ha.
The 16-year-old daughter of that 43-year-old mother is now a 43-year-old mother with a 16-year-old son. She is grateful for and amazed by it all, but most especially by breakfast conversation that can create a time warp and at how you can walk six miles and never leave an intersection.
