It was not a
loud noise, but I could hear it from across the room.
I had
trained myself to listen for it.
The sound of
air being slowly pulled in through the nose and held deep in the lungs.
Sometimes so
very slowly it would have been noticed by no one else, sometimes held for just
seconds and other times it was held
for what seemed a lifetime. And then the sound of the air slowly being
released.
I heard this
sound for years. I remember once wondering if she had always done this or if it
was something that had developed over the years after her journey of motherhood
began.
Sometimes I
would hear it just before she released on me her fury of words over something
stupid I had done.
Sometimes
times I would hear it as she sat down for dinner to listen to our unending
stories of school, friends, and activities. To our complaints
about the food we were expected to eat and the homework we were expected to do.
Sometimes it
was at the grocery store as she slowly wrote the check for the groceries when
we were struggling to make ends meet.
Sometimes it
come from the front seat as we made the long journey to Tennessee to visit my
grandparents. In back we sat complaining about the length of
the ride, the cramped accommodations, the lack of stops, and the brother who
wasn’t touching me but whose finger was held steadily just millimeters from my
nose. My dad in
the front seat slowly losing his temper all while she wondered if we truly had
enough money to make the trip and would
the car last.
I remember
laying on the hospital bed once about age six, heading in for some tests.
Routine they
said, no big deal, but as they
wheeled me away and she handed me a stuffed lamb for comfort I clearly recall her
taking in that breath, holding it deep within her. I don’t
remember hearing the release but I imagine it happened just moments after I passed
through the double doors or maybe she held it until she was back at my side.
When at
seventeen I sat across from her in tears explaining how I had driven her car
into a mailbox on a road I shouldn’t have been on, she said nothing but I heard
the breath.
One
afternoon as we sat in the living room of our home I recall the deep breath and
slow release that came right before the announcement.
She and Dad
had decided they could no longer be together.
Their
marriage was ending and our lives would be forever changed.
Months later
as we sat across from each other sharing lunch my trained ear heard as the deep
breath came again. I prepared
myself, I knew this
sound was never without consequence and this time was no different. This time
she told me she was remarried,
moving to
Germany and my
younger siblings would be going with her. Now I took
my own deep breath, maybe the first, I can’t be sure.
For years I
associated this sound with her preparation to deal with us, her children,
the five of
us, our many demands, our many needs.
But then I
stood beside her one afternoon, I heard her take in the slow deep breath.
I looked at
her, elegant yet exhausted, dressed all in black, she held that breath for what
seemed like an eternity, and then I heard the slow steady release and at that
moment I realized it had nothing to do with us
and never
did.
It had
everything to do with her.
She was
drawing in her strength, to bear the world for us.
She was
taking a moment.
How will she
handle this,
how will she
sustain the life she has built,
how will she
protect those she loves?
As she stood
in front of the crowd with four children at her side,
behind her a
memorial to the Marine,
the young
man, the son,
one of her
babies
……..how many
words of sympathy can she handle, how many hugs can she accept, how many times
can people say they were grateful for her sacrifice ……..How many before she
breaks? A deep breath.
And now as I
take my own slow deep breaths I hope my children know,
“it’s not
about you, but about me
how strong
can I be.”
And if my
mother is any indication, I can bear the world on my shoulders if it means you
won’t have to.
