Post #189 – Women’s Memoirs, ScrapMoir – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
Memoir Contest – Honorable Mention, Gratitude for Family Category
Our November 2011 Memoir Writing Contest brought in many terrific entries. The stories touched us in different ways. Women’s Memoirs is pleased to publish the Kathleen Hewitt’s Honorable Mention award-winning story today. Gratitude is vital all year long. What are you grateful for today?
Congratulations to Kathleen on her award-winning story. Thanks for sharing this story.
CLOAK OF GRATITUDE
By Kathleen Hewitt
I let the autumn night air in through any window I had in my bedroom. I was getting older and I was never cool enough. Covering myself with a gold silk comforter from a beloved aunt, my body was held in fluffy down while my face and foot took in the leafy breeze. Auntie had given me this quilt, a gold so deep it was almost part of the crimson family, years after it was handmade in the old country. Under this mantle of comfort, the talks began.
She’d let herself in, a slight tap at the door first, closing it behind her while whispering, “Hi Mama.” Sliding under the loving fabric, she had her own blanket clutched in her hand. She would softly run it on her cheek, even now, at this age, and even now, when the blanket looked more like a narrow flannel scarf with holes in it.
I smiled in the dark room, moonlit. On those nights when there was a hunter moon, the talks would go on forever. Sleep could wait.
“I don’t even like football, I don’t know why I go to those games, but everyone goes, it’s what they do. And then everybody worries about who he or she is sitting with or who’s talking to whom. It’s like you have to be cool and go. Boys never gather in a big crowd like that and watch the girls play, not that I’d want them too. I’m having enough trouble with that…”
I’d shift a little, waiting for more, loving her 16-year-old voice.
The talks started a long time ago with her constant inquiries as to when ‘Riley’ the dog would be born and become part of the family. “Aren’t you just so excited?” she’d say. And she’d go on about what he might look like, the things she’d do with him, and how responsible she’d be. She was 10 when I thought a puppy, a ‘Golden Achiever’, she had begged for, might help her get through the time of my cancer treatment. The little pup with “the cutest face I’ve ever seen in my life” brought her the joy I had hoped for.
And then on some very dark nights, the words would be softer, “Are they really, really, really sure that you’re going to be alright?” I could smell her strawberry shampoo, hear the ‘blankie’ smoothing her face, and know that her eyes were on my nighttime shadow. I would tell her that I would be fine, that I had a lot to do, that she and I had a lot of things to do together, for years to come. On those nights, she’d come a little closer and fall asleep a little sooner.
As a young teen, she counted on me always being awake and ready to listen. And I was. No little knock on the door but rather her sweet cherry lip-gloss coming into the room, “Mama, you’re not going to believe this one.” And she’d settle in and tell me about her life with every breathless detail. She had been out at a friend’s house and I had gone to bed early knowing her Dad would drive her home. Those nights even years after treatment were painful ones, worse when lying down, but the exhaustion had to be dealt with. The healing talks into the night got us both through.
Tears found the lush comforter some nights, hers and mine. Her sobbing about a friend’s betrayal would bring her through the door in a quiet sweep. She’d come to the other side, my side, and lay down deep, her head on my chest. The tears of my girl were always in some darkened bedroom of her soul. She rarely opens that door.
On summer nights, the ocean came in, with her beautiful long golden salty locks and tossing the too warm comforter aside, we’d giggle and belly laugh our way into the night. She’d stay, enjoying the cool of the air conditioner on those saturated nights and I’d love waking often, as I do, to find her hair all over the pillows, ‘blankie’ in hand, and our cat curled at her legs.
When there were times, weeks of nights, when she slept in her own room, not needing to share as much, I’d miss her. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was it, the time when it would stop, a natural end to a beautiful part of my girl and me.
And just when I think it’s part of our past, there’s a quiet knock and her long legs come in. She asks, “Are you still awake, Mama?”
I shift under the cloak of gratitude, whispering a silent prayer of thanks to the spirit that brings us love like this, and say, “Yes, honey, how are you? Come on in.”