Mother's Bible
Mother’s Bible
“Hmmm. It’s time to go through Mother’s stuff,” I whispered into the silence of the basement.
Silence broken by the sound of my heavy breathing and the boxes rasping along the dirty basement floor as I dragged them to the stairs. I lugged the three boxes upstairs and placed them on the floor next to the kitchen table. It was exactly one year since Mother died. The kitchen table and the boxes were all that remained of her life. Rather than wallow in sadness, I decided to look through the boxes and remember her life.
I saved the table because of the memories it held for me. Breakfasts at the table, sitting in a chair, my feet swinging wildly back and forth as I fought to stay still while Mother braided my hair. Card games with Father while he smoked a cigarette and drank from his ever-present can of Pabst. Dinners with both of them, and my sister Ella. It was where we talked about our day and shared our hopes and dreams. My parents sat at the table and spoke in hushed whispers after Ella and I had gone to bed. Whispers that weren’t quite soft enough though to prevent me from overhearing their expressions of love and affection for each other. Those words were what helped me feel safe and secure in the warmth of our family. The kitchen table was where our family was one.
The three boxes represented what was left from Mother that I thought worth saving. Everything else was gone. The furniture. The house. Her clothes. All sold. Given away. Thrown away. In the boxes were the family photo albums. The framed picture of Mother and Father on their wedding day that had held a place of honor on a table in the front room. A binder full of Mother’s recipes that she had collected. Most of them never tried, but many of them representing meals that I could still recall. Meals at the kitchen table in the glow of a winter evening, with snow falling outside but my family comfortable and warm inside.
The boxes also contained short stories and poems she had written, not to be published but because sometimes she just felt like writing something. Mother would sit at the kitchen table with a stubby pencil in her hand and a pad of paper in front of her. She would stare off into space and then write a few lines. Then go back to staring, only to write a few more lines a couple of minutes later.
Sitting at the table, I began pulling the contents out and going through them. At the bottom of the second box was Mother’s Bible. I had never known her to be religious, but after her death, I found the Bible at the bottom of one of her drawers, buried beneath a pile of sweaters. Without a thought, the Bible had gone into the box of memories that I kept.
Now, having looked through all the family pictures and having read a couple of the stories, I reached for the Bible. I ran my fingers over the soft leather cover and opened it to the first page. The pages were yellowed with age and on the inside was a handwritten note in Mother’s graceful cursive indicating that the Bible was a gift from her grandmother to her mother. I was the fourth generation of the family to hold the Bible in my hands.
I began to thumb through the pages, enjoying the sound of the pages crinkling as I did so. Noticing a gap forming between two pages, I turned to it and found an envelope. In the upper left corner was a P.O. Box address in some town in Michigan I had never heard of. The envelope was addressed to Mother.
For the second time, I found myself whispering, “hmmm,” breaking the silence that had crept into the kitchen. “I wonder what this is.”
Opening the flap of the envelope, I slid out the single sheet of paper that the envelope contained and unfolded it gently.
“Dearest Sandra,” it began in a masculine scrawl.
I find this letter to be the most difficult thing I have ever written. I want nothing more than to be able to write something else. But, write it I must. I cannot go on like this. The distance that lies between us is simply too great while the memories I have of you bring you so near. I can feel you in my arms right now as I write this but I fear that I will never actually experience that feeling again.
I understand why you made the choice you did. However, I must also make a choice. As much as it pains me to say this, I need to move on. I can wait no longer. I love you deeply and profoundly and will always remember the short time that we had together as the one time I experienced true and real love.
Yours always,
John
“What the hell . . .” I thought. Going back to the top of the letter, I read it again. Was this a boyfriend Mother had before she got married? Was it something else? I looked again and for the first time saw a date in the upper right corner of the letter -- “Feb. 5, 1968.” Four years after I was born. One year before little Ella was born. And six years after my parents were married.
“My God,” I muttered as I let the paper fall to the table. I looked out the kitchen window and saw the sun shining brightly off the snow that had fallen the night before. I looked back at the letter on the table and thought back to my childhood. In my mind, I could see Ella sitting across from me, making faces at me and trying to make Father laugh. Father to my left, trying not to laugh as he hid his face behind his hands. And Mother, of course, sitting to my right. She would not, could not, repress her laughter. Her face would glow and her eyes sparkle as she would laugh at Ella’s antics.
Was it just my imagination that she would turn at some point to Father and share that glow with him in a look that only two people in love could share? I had always felt secure in the idea that my parents had loved each other. Were my memories a far cry from reality?
I went to the desk in my bedroom and typed the name of the town in Michigan into the search bar of my computer. Would it even be possible to track “John” down with nothing more than a P.O. Box address from thirty-five years ago? Probably not. I exited from the search page, turned off the computer and went back to the kitchen table. Mother was there, to the right. Ella was giggling. Father was looking at Mother with love in his eyes. A look that Mother returned.
I put everything back into the boxes, with the Bible at the bottom of one and lugged them back downstairs. I preferred my memories. Reality could stay down in the cold, dark basement. Forever, as far as I was concerned.
“Hmmm. It’s time to go through Mother’s stuff,” I whispered into the silence of the basement.
Silence broken by the sound of my heavy breathing and the boxes rasping along the dirty basement floor as I dragged them to the stairs. I lugged the three boxes upstairs and placed them on the floor next to the kitchen table. It was exactly one year since Mother died. The kitchen table and the boxes were all that remained of her life. Rather than wallow in sadness, I decided to look through the boxes and remember her life.
I saved the table because of the memories it held for me. Breakfasts at the table, sitting in a chair, my feet swinging wildly back and forth as I fought to stay still while Mother braided my hair. Card games with Father while he smoked a cigarette and drank from his ever-present can of Pabst. Dinners with both of them, and my sister Ella. It was where we talked about our day and shared our hopes and dreams. My parents sat at the table and spoke in hushed whispers after Ella and I had gone to bed. Whispers that weren’t quite soft enough though to prevent me from overhearing their expressions of love and affection for each other. Those words were what helped me feel safe and secure in the warmth of our family. The kitchen table was where our family was one.
The three boxes represented what was left from Mother that I thought worth saving. Everything else was gone. The furniture. The house. Her clothes. All sold. Given away. Thrown away. In the boxes were the family photo albums. The framed picture of Mother and Father on their wedding day that had held a place of honor on a table in the front room. A binder full of Mother’s recipes that she had collected. Most of them never tried, but many of them representing meals that I could still recall. Meals at the kitchen table in the glow of a winter evening, with snow falling outside but my family comfortable and warm inside.
The boxes also contained short stories and poems she had written, not to be published but because sometimes she just felt like writing something. Mother would sit at the kitchen table with a stubby pencil in her hand and a pad of paper in front of her. She would stare off into space and then write a few lines. Then go back to staring, only to write a few more lines a couple of minutes later.
Sitting at the table, I began pulling the contents out and going through them. At the bottom of the second box was Mother’s Bible. I had never known her to be religious, but after her death, I found the Bible at the bottom of one of her drawers, buried beneath a pile of sweaters. Without a thought, the Bible had gone into the box of memories that I kept.
Now, having looked through all the family pictures and having read a couple of the stories, I reached for the Bible. I ran my fingers over the soft leather cover and opened it to the first page. The pages were yellowed with age and on the inside was a handwritten note in Mother’s graceful cursive indicating that the Bible was a gift from her grandmother to her mother. I was the fourth generation of the family to hold the Bible in my hands.
I began to thumb through the pages, enjoying the sound of the pages crinkling as I did so. Noticing a gap forming between two pages, I turned to it and found an envelope. In the upper left corner was a P.O. Box address in some town in Michigan I had never heard of. The envelope was addressed to Mother.
For the second time, I found myself whispering, “hmmm,” breaking the silence that had crept into the kitchen. “I wonder what this is.”
Opening the flap of the envelope, I slid out the single sheet of paper that the envelope contained and unfolded it gently.
“Dearest Sandra,” it began in a masculine scrawl.
I find this letter to be the most difficult thing I have ever written. I want nothing more than to be able to write something else. But, write it I must. I cannot go on like this. The distance that lies between us is simply too great while the memories I have of you bring you so near. I can feel you in my arms right now as I write this but I fear that I will never actually experience that feeling again.
I understand why you made the choice you did. However, I must also make a choice. As much as it pains me to say this, I need to move on. I can wait no longer. I love you deeply and profoundly and will always remember the short time that we had together as the one time I experienced true and real love.
Yours always,
John
“What the hell . . .” I thought. Going back to the top of the letter, I read it again. Was this a boyfriend Mother had before she got married? Was it something else? I looked again and for the first time saw a date in the upper right corner of the letter -- “Feb. 5, 1968.” Four years after I was born. One year before little Ella was born. And six years after my parents were married.
“My God,” I muttered as I let the paper fall to the table. I looked out the kitchen window and saw the sun shining brightly off the snow that had fallen the night before. I looked back at the letter on the table and thought back to my childhood. In my mind, I could see Ella sitting across from me, making faces at me and trying to make Father laugh. Father to my left, trying not to laugh as he hid his face behind his hands. And Mother, of course, sitting to my right. She would not, could not, repress her laughter. Her face would glow and her eyes sparkle as she would laugh at Ella’s antics.
Was it just my imagination that she would turn at some point to Father and share that glow with him in a look that only two people in love could share? I had always felt secure in the idea that my parents had loved each other. Were my memories a far cry from reality?
I went to the desk in my bedroom and typed the name of the town in Michigan into the search bar of my computer. Would it even be possible to track “John” down with nothing more than a P.O. Box address from thirty-five years ago? Probably not. I exited from the search page, turned off the computer and went back to the kitchen table. Mother was there, to the right. Ella was giggling. Father was looking at Mother with love in his eyes. A look that Mother returned.
I put everything back into the boxes, with the Bible at the bottom of one and lugged them back downstairs. I preferred my memories. Reality could stay down in the cold, dark basement. Forever, as far as I was concerned.
posted by Sparky at 7:06 PM
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