Because of Antarctica, I began to understand Mother better, too, or at least that I would have to find a way not to need her so much. It wasn’t that she couldn’t love me—she just didn’t know how to show it. I could choose to accept her for whom she was, or remain bitter because she didn’t fulfill my expectations. All of our lives had changed when Jake passed away and we could never recapture the innocence we had lost along with him. I smiled as I thought about the way I used to frown every time Antarctica reminded me when a bird falls out of the nest it had better learn to fly. Life was a series of birds falling out of their nests and it was up to them to flap their wings in order to survive.
Even now, there are times when I am capable of telling my story as though I were talking about something as insignificant as the weather. Then suddenly, my voice breaks and I find myself struggling to suffocate the intense sorrow that swarms inside me like mad bees whose hive has been disturbed. The sorrow crowds into my throat, gripping it so tightly I can no longer swallow back my tears. I feel their sting as they steal across my cheeks like a leak sprung from a secret source. That’s when I realize that despite the many years that have inched me out of childhood, the past still hovers over me like a fog trying to lift its legs from a bayou on a chilly morning.
I don’t know if I understand the purpose of life any more than I did that summer in Land of Goshen, but I do have a better appreciation for how precious life is. It can be exceedingly short and easily spent without fulfillment. I wanted my tombstone to say I had lived, just like the words engraved on Antarctica’s after she passed away. I don’t want to miss a single sunrise or sunset, the first bud of spring or the last leaf to fall from any tree. I never want to forget that every whisper of creation is an echo of all that has lived before, that every speck of dust that blows in the wind holds my brother’s spirit, or that every raindrop contains his very soul. Jake is in the rainbow, the moonlight, and the creek that runs behind the farm that once belonged to Granddaddy Anders—not the gravesite that Mother still visits every time she goes to Land of Goshen.
I closed my eyes and thought back to that last day I spent with Mama Hendricks so long ago. That day will remain in my heart forever.
I HAD NOT seen my parents for almost three months. We had talked on the phone a few times and I had written them twice. Once, Mother had sent me a note with a few dollars enclosed, which I took as her feeble way of saying she loved me. I had tried my best to understand how difficult it was for her to express her feelings, how I might feel if I had lost a child.
More than anything, I hated having to say goodbye to Mama Hendricks. She had remained in bed that morning so Antarctica would have more time to help me gather my things for my trip home. I peeked into her room and walked over to her bed. The light was dim and I couldn’t tell if she was awake or not.
“I’ve almost finished packing,” I said as I leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.” Her old eyes filled with tears. “When do you think you’ll come back and visit?’
“Soon, I promise.”
Mama Hendricks had braved so much in her life and it seemed unfitting for her to spend her last few years in a bed or wheelchair. Before I could thank her for letting me stay with her all summer, Antarctica gently tugged at my arm and hurried me out of the room.
“Miss Ada need her rest. Go’on now and finish up with that packing. Ain’t no use upsetting that poor soul any more than need be. I’ll be along d’rectly to help.”
“I’m going to miss you, Antarctica,” I said as I headed for my room.
“Don’t get me started, child. I don’t want Miss Ada to see either of us carryin’ on like crybabies, so you just go’on and get packed.”
As I arranged the few books and personal items I had brought with me in one of my suitcases, Antarctica came in with the clothes that she had washed and ironed for me that morning.
“I don’t know how’s you gonna get all that stuff in that suitcase,” she said. “Here, let me do that while you start carting these boxes out to the front hall. Miss Kathleen will be here any minute.”
I had learned not to argue with Antarctica. She had come into my life at a time when I needed her most. It was as though our meeting were by design—some great plan that was still beyond my comprehension. As I put down the two boxes I had carried to the front door, I heard the sound of tires crunching the gravel drive. When I looked out the side light, I was surprised to see Mother’s car instead of Kathleen’s and I suddenly felt uneasy. I had not counted on this and wasn’t sure I knew how to deal with it. My panic faded, however, as though Antarctica was standing next to me urging me on: when a bird falls out of the nest it had better learn to fly. I knew that there was only one way to find out if I had learned to fly. I had to open the door and go outside to meet her.
The sun, now in its peak, spit its blinding light directly on my face. I raised one hand to shield my eyes as I clutched the doorknob with my other. My fingers were clammy and my heart was racing. Mother took her time getting out of the car, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror first. She opened the door and slowly swung her feet to the ground. Our eyes met as she lifted herself out of the car and stood beside it. For a moment, I thought she would get back behind the wheel and drive away, or that I would turn and run inside so I could escape the uneasiness of being near her again. Then suddenly, she came toward me with outstretched arms. I froze in place as she wrapped her arms around me. Her embrace seemed shy and unfamiliar at first, then tight and unrelenting. The arms that had once pushed me away now held me close to her heart, then closer. All I could think of is how long I once waited for an apple tree. I would have waited forever for this single, precious moment.
Patricia Taylor Wells, holds a BA in English and French and has facilitated writing critique groups for the Atlanta Writers Club and Knoxville Writers Group. She published her first book in 2016: Camp Tyler, A First of its Kind for the benefit of Camp Tyler, the oldest outdoor education school in the country, which she attended as a child. Most of Ms. Wells’ writing has been directed at serving organizations and causes important to her. As a result, she was selected to write the first article for the newly created Authors Among Us column in Tyler Today Magazine (June/July 2016). She also published two poems, a short story and a narrative non-fiction article in the 2016 East Texas Writers Guild Anthology. In addition, the first chapter of The Eyes of the Doe placed as a finalist in the 2016 First Chapter Competition for Historical Fiction sponsored by East Texas Writers Guild. She especially enjoys writing poetry and draws inspiration from the wide range of experience she gathered from her travels and living in a variety of places. She currently lives in Tyler, Texas with her husband Bob and their dog Kaspar.
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