Duckling Generations

A memoir (I think) that I wrote for a college class (taking a URI class throguh a high school elective)

 

Duckling Generations

Waiting outside the terminal, I grew impatient. I adjusted, snapped at the waistband of my stockings and bit my nails. I remember the feel of my mom’s hand as she swatted it away. Usually she was sterner, but now she barely touched my arm, and her palms are sweaty. The next few minutes are blurred by the usual childhood thoughts of how busy the airport was, how many people stormed about and swarmed the doors and escalators, and how I did not know anyone, and they didn’t know me. 
        Grammy never came. My dad went off to search for her and I waited with my sisters, occupying myself by annoying Shaina until I noticed a stuffed snake in a gift shop. I spent the next ten minutes begging my mom to buy it before my dad came back.

“Found her. She took the handicap exit.”

 Like obedient ducks, my sisters and I followed my parents over to an elevator door. Waiting there, I picked and stretched another hole into my new stockings. When no one was looking, I played with the runs, pulled at the fraying strings and smiled, even as I imagined mom’s fury. Then the doors wheezed open. To people came out, and I completely disregarded the woman in the wheel chair. I was more interested in the thin black man with the funny accent and big smile. He was different, new. Besides, my Grammy would not need a wheel chair. She was tough and her hair was a deep auburn shade, curled into a forest. I was surprised when my mother smiled and walked over, hugged the bony woman in the chair. She waved us over. 

My sisters and I stood in an awkward line as my dad came forward, shook her hand and kissed her spotty, scarred cheek. When he stepped back, there was a moment of utter silence as my sisters and I stood observing the sack of bones before us. The memories and minor threats given to me over the years came back in a flood. And I suddenly did not want to touch her, to even go near her. I joined my sisters in the rush to hug and trade kisses, but afterward to stood awkwardly next to the wheel chair as my mom snapped a photo and made conversation 

            Standing there, I knew that deep inside of me a huge part of me suddenly did not want this woman involved in my life. Sure, over the next few weeks, my Grammy turned out to be funny, understanding, and she even spent some of her money (she never had much) to buy gifts for us. She took the time to pick out a Cinderella castle for me, K’Nex for Shaina and CD player for Kayla. 

However, when she left I did not remember her kindness or the gifts I cherished. Even at the age of seven, I could feel the discomfort between Mom and Grammy, maybe more than my sisters could. I was the youngest; I was sensitive to these things, with two older sisters, sensitivity is required for survival. There was something dark and rotting in that relationship that kept my mom from smiling and my Grammy’s eyes from living. Later, I asked my mom about it.

It was then that I learned the truth about family. You cannot always choose who you love. Some times a person does not know how to love and people have to live with that. As cruel as it may sound, my mother taught me a valuable lesson. She taught me not only to live without constant encouragement, but also she also taught me you must forgive the people that hurt you, whatever they do, or, refuse to do. If not, you might never be able to function without feeling regret, without becoming bitter. 

 My mom went down to Texas a few months before Grammy died in 2003. She came back with pictures of the same old woman, her body more withered and more worn, deep purple sores dotting her elbows and one leg cut off short at the knee. A cigarette still clamped between her fingers, and she observed the camera with blank, dead eyes that were more than ready to leave. When my Aunt Gail called to say she was gone, I sat next to my mother, held her hand. 

I saw her eyes grow watery, but neither of us ever cried. The need to cry was so great that it became a pain in my chest. But sometimes, there is just too much distance, too much space and you cannot follow, pain or no pain. My sisters and I were silent for a bit. Sitting around the table, it was dead silent, except for the fumbling of fingers of the hem of shirts, and the curl of mom’s cigarette smoke. Finally, my mom sighed, deeply, as if her thoughts and soul were whirling about somewhere above her head and decided to flood back inside. She looked at the clock and asked, “Did anyone take the dogs out? If they piss on the floor, I’m not cleaning it up.”                

 

 

Author's Note

does it soudn too much like a narrative?

Reviews

[Emily B]

I think a narrative is just what it should be. Great write. There is a constant struggle between mothers and daughters. It's a hard thing.

[Kevin Andros]

This is a great peice over here Casey! It's like a narrative, but I enjoyed and was interested right to the end. You have a great knack for description, I will say that. You make the reader see the things that you have described and they see the things exactly you have described and want them to see.

Now let me come to the theme of the peice. From the view point observing thie peice from the theme, a few paragraphs may seem extra. The idea at the center is great one, it teaches us a lot.

" You cannot always choose who you love. She taught me not only to live without constant encouragement, but also she also taught me you must forgive the people that hurt you...."

A great idea. A thing that maybe the center point of the arguments, but noone actually comes to the center.

A great peice, literally and theme-wise. I enjoyed it 100%.

~KA~