In Your Atmosphere
My daughter crawled into bed in the early morning hours. I felt her body nestle into my own. Despite being half-asleep she leaned in to kiss my forehead and gently stroke my arm. With our eyes closed, I kissed her cheek back, and squeezed her small foot as we drifted, together, back into a sweet and deep slumber.
A short while later I saw my daughter curled on the floor. She had fallen to the floor and, too sleepy to return to the warm comfort of my arms, fell back to sleep in the fetal position with a blanket haphazardly wrapped around her
My mind immediately drifted to the memory of sleeping on the floor.
For many years I slept on the floor of my parent's bedroom, adjacent to my mom's side of the bed. It is the side that always had a small nightstand or table that was home to her alarm clock, always set 20 minutes (at least) ahead.
My mom would wake in the middle of the night to go to work 5 nights a week. I always did my best to not miss seeing her all those early mornings before she left, somewhere around 2 a.m. She would tip-toe around me gingerly, always careful, despite the fatigue and disappointment for having to go to a job she didn't love at a time when the rest of her family slept.
I distinctly remember the separation anxiety and sadness I felt when my mom went to work many nights. I would often get up from the floor and lie in my mom's spot next to my dad. He would always lay pillows down the center of the bed because apparently, not much unlike these days, I was quite restless and quite the kicker. I still sleep like a starfish, too.
After my mom left her warm spot in bed, I would bury my face into her pillow because it smelled like her. Sometimes I cried. It is hard to say whether it comforted me or made me more sad. I guess that is the bittersweet irony of devotion and separation.
There were many summer nights that were sweeter, when my brothers, sisters and I would await her departure as we stayed awake all hours of the night. On the nights when she worked, after getting herself ready, she would stand outside her bedroom for a final bid adieu to her home and always always do a whispered roll call to herself "Charmaine, Camille, Chris, Cherise, Corbin, Cambria..." and simultaneously wave her arms.
If it sounds odd, it's because it is.
My mama is a bit of an odd duck.
But it was also a way of reassuring herself where her kids were and accounting for each of us. I always came last, and I always will, and I will always be okay with that.
That's the bittersweet irony of being the baby.
I slept on the floor for many years, either in my brothers' messy room, sisters' crowded room, in the hall, front room or next to my parents. I sort of belonged nowhere and everywhere, though I enjoyed flitting around.
And though I hadn't thought of it for some time and probably never wished to have to sleep on a floor again, seeing my daughter curled up made me wish I could have one more night curled up next to my mom and dad. I wished my brothers and sisters and I could have a final night of watching my mom wave her arms around and then run around the house in an attempt to get to work on time. I wished we could watch her rifle through her purse, frantically checking to be sure she had lipstick and her hairbrush tucked away. "Keys, lipstick, brush..."
It was another one of her whispered roll calls.
And I know my siblings will also remember those warm summer nights when we would walk her to her car, with quick hugs and kisses and watching as she drove down the street, always pumping her brakes several times as she melted into the distance- the final goodbye to us.
That's what I'm thinking about tonight.
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