Trying to maintain a grasp of history, this class, and my life.

That picture on the wall.

“Who is that picture?”  The young child asked pointing towards the wall.

            Tears welled in his mother’s eyes.  She struggled to choke them back.  But the gleaming in her eyes betrayed her pain.  It had been such a drain, such a strain for her to bear that burden.  She looked up to the picture of a young boy.  He was just a few years older than the child that stood before her.  She reached down and tussled the boy’s hair.  She bent down and embraced the child in a hug.

            “I’m sorry mommy, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

            His mother let out a sob, still embracing the child.  “No honey, it’s not your fault.   Mommy is just upset she… she had a bad day at work.”

            The last part of his mother’s sentence sounded false.  Her tone reminded him of when he found her make-up and painted the walls, as well as the curtains, and told her he didn’t do it.  Well who did it she asked?  And he had responded, Grandma did it.  But his young mind couldn’t comprehend that much complexity.  He looked around the room satisfied with her answer, he began his search for his glowworm toy.

            A few years had passed, and yet again the child found himself looking at the picture on the wall.  It looked liked him, he used to think it was him.  But when he looked into the mirror, he knew it wasn’t him.  Once again he looked to his mother, “Mom who is that on the wall?”

            Perhaps she had grown accustom to the question, or perhaps the pain had eased.  Yet the child could see the pain in her face.  The anguish in her eyes.  They held that hollowed look, that look of one who had faced so much tragedy.  The look of hopelessness, the look of someone who wanted to die.  But she had two young children to look after, she couldn’t fail them.  The child watched the conflict of emotions play out on her face.  After sometime he realized the answer wouldn’t be forth coming.  He reached down for the G.I Joes he had been playing with.

            As another year passed, the child was now enrolled in school.  He began to notice things.  The other kids in the class couldn’t wait to get home, to play with dad.  In class he learned that other children had dads.  And that they were like mom’s only different.  Excited by this new discovery, he couldn’t wait to get home.  So he could find out who his dad was.  When the bus dropped him off he ran to his mother embracing her in a hug.

            “How was your first day school honey?”  She asked.

            “It was so much fun, I made some new friends, and we learned about the alphabet and numbers, and ZERO the HERO!!!!” He exclaimed with much jubilation.

            “Wow honey it sounds like you had a fun day at school.”

            “I have just one question?”

            “What is it Hun?”

            “Whose my dad?” He asked.

            As soon as he asked the question he saw his mother wince.  She had that same look on her face the last time he had asked her about the picture on the wall.  He watched as she began to fall within herself.  He could see the pain wash over her.  He was sorry, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault.

            It had been an innocent enough question anyways.

            A few weeks had passed by, or maybe it had been a few months… A child doesn’t keep track of such things anyways.  The mother brought her child to see a doctor.  On the way they stopped at K-mart and bought some Legoes.  They were some bandits, thieves from the castle day.  He had so much fun playing with them in the waiting room.  He and his brother fought over them, while they waited for the doctor.  When their name was called, she brought him into the doctor’s office.

            “That’s not a doctor!” The child exclaimed to his mother.

            “But I am a doctor.” The doctor without a white coat answered.  “I’m the talking kind of doctor.”

            The doctor turned away from his patient and looked at the mother.  “I’ll talk to just him for now if that’s all right.”

            “Thank you doctor.”  His mother said.

            “Now do you know why you are here today?”  The doctor asked.

            “No… are you my dad?”

            A chuckle escaped his lips he had not been quite prepared for that question.  “No I’m sorry that I’m not your dad.”

            “Oh, ok I didn’t think so, because I’m not the same color as you.”

            “Well that doesn’t necessary mean I couldn’t be your dad.”

            “Ok then well who are you?”

            “Well I’m friends with your mom,” he said as he reached in his desk.  “She asked me to talk to you about this.”

            He handed the child the picture that had been hanging on the wall of his house.

            “Hey we have that picture too!”

            “This is your picture.”

            “Oh… Well… why do you have it?”

            “Well you see, that’s your brother.”

            “No it’s not, my bubby is younger than me… and smaller… “  the child stammered then he pointed at the picture. “…and he’s bigger than I am.”

            “Well that’s because he’s your older brother.”

            “Then why haven’t I met him?”

            “Well he’s not here.”  The doctor said sincerely.

            “Not here?  You mean like bubby.  I’ll just go get him here then.”

            “Do you remember Crabby?”  The doctor asked.

            “How do you know Crabby?”

            ‘As I said I’m friends with your mother, she told me about your pet Crabby.”

            “Crabby’s dead…” The child said.  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it makes me sad that he’s not here.”

            “I see my child… you know your mommy gets sad too.”

            “I know…”

            “Well would you like to go for a walk?”

            ‘Sure… I guess.”

            “We’ll just walk across the street to the comic book store.”

            “What’s a comic book store?”

            “Come on I’ll show you.”

            And the child went with the doctor to the comic book store.  The child saw a lot of things he liked, like toys.  And there were all these picture books.  He was overwhelmed with joy.  He was elated and had forgotten about the talk of his brother, and Crabby.  Mommy’s friend was so nice to show him this wonderful place.  He even found a “comic book”, as the doctor had called it, which had pictures of his favorite toys.  The doctor bought him that comic book and all was well.

As we discussed Babylon Revisited, in class I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness, perhaps even despair.  I found myself falling within my past.  Some of the issues we talked about really hit home…

Please excuse me, while I check on my dinner.  Cordon Blue and mashed potatoes.  Delicious, but I digress.

I keep seeing, or remembering, or however you describe a scene from literature.  I keep picturing… yes that’s the word.  I can recall the scene where Charlie asks Honoria if she still has a picture of her mother.  She responds in turn that it is still in her possession.  I think that Charlie thinks it’s of the upmost importance that Honoria remembers her mother.  Now the afore mentioned story I wrote is what I called social realism from my own life.  It’s not quite fiction because the story was conjured of memories that I possess.  However it’s not quite true because these memories are conjoined with a lack of, a lack of, shall we say chronological order.  They were plucked, and reorganized to create a story.  But that photo really does hang in my mother’s living room.  And it is a memory, albeit a painful one.  Therefore the picture must represent… that we mustn’t forget the ones we love.  We mustn’t forget the joy that they have brought us.  But we must also take the good with the bad.  We have to learn to let go of the pain, but not the memory.