October 23, 2005

• My Worst Experience Ever…

  The topic this weekend for the “Grownups…” blogring is to write about your worst experience ever. I am sure most people have a lot to choose from as do I. Sometimes, an experience may not be the worst thing ever to have happened to you in your entire life, but because it was the worst thing that had happened to you at that time in your life, it sticks with you and permanently colors or darkens one area or relationship. The experience I am about to share with you is one like that.

  The Apology

  I was fifteen when Mother lost her job when Woolworth went out of business. Her mind was sick and she could not afford her medicine. Sister and I were constantly reminded of the sacrifices she made so that we could still go to our private school. Her moods were the colors of cobalt, pink, and the emergence of black.

  I wrote to stave off the darkness and madness that surrounded our days and nights. Sister was joy and light, but her eyes did not work, and the words looked backwards, so I read to her. Sister would listen to the poems and stories that Mother did not have time for.

  I saved these words in an old trapper keeper that I had decorated with stickers of the sun, moon, and stars. Mother was always angry anymore, and one day when Sister could not read her homework, she slapped her and marched her to my room.

  My door flew open and Sister was on her tiptoes, mouth open in silent tears as her arm was twisted above her. Mother barked, help the Idiot with her homework. I said I would when I had finished my poem. Mother snatched the Trapper from my hands and began to rip the paper into shreds. I yelled, “Please, I’ll do it now, I’ll help her!” as white confetti floated to the ground like dying fairies.

  Mother left the room, and Sister and I knelt on the floor, lovingly scooping the paper shards into neat piles. Sister whispered, “you don’t hate me, do you?” and I shook my head to say no, not you, never you.

  Mother’s hand stunned me, burning my cheek with an angry slap. I stood up as she loomed overhead, trashcan in hand. She said, “Put it in the garbage, all of it.” I cried, “No Mom, please, not that.” Snot and tears ran down my face like waterfalls as I begged. She put her hand in my hair and twisted it in a big knot, pulling my head down to the floor.

  I grabbed handfulls of paper and put them in the garbage. I looked at the carpet, unable to make contact with her angry eyes. “Now the trapper,” she said and my tears welled again, but she hit them away.

  She pulled the bag out and tied it. She grabbed my elbow and jerked me out to the barn and placed the bag in an iron barrell and handed me matches. “Light it,’ is all she said, and with trembling hands, I lit the match and watched it melt through the plastic to burn my dreams. She walked back inside as I stood there, watching them ignite, and I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  • 3:01 pm
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