Without Saying a Word

Summer that year was beasty hot and dry. The sidewalks sizzled and roasted my bare feet, and the heat permeated the already parched ground leaving huge cracks and crevices. The grassy lawns—yellow and burnt—smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too long. Our home had no A/C and was suffocatingly hot. So, I escaped outdoors riding my bike up and down the neighborhood streets pedaling at white heat speed until I could feel bursts of warm air blowing across my face and shoulders. When I stopped, though, I could see the heat waves rising around me—baking my bones and melting the rubber tires on bike. “It’s soooo hot, Mama! May I go swimming today?” I begged. “No, sweetie, you may not. It’s too expensive to go swimming.” “But I want to go swimming; all the other kids are going swimming. Pleeease, Mama, please!” “No!” Mother wrinkled her eyebrow. “Don’t ask me again.” I pouted, stomped my foot, and shouted, “Well, fine! I’m running away from home—to Granny’s house. I bet she’ll take me swimming.” I stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door. Huge mistake! Moments later, Mother flung open the door brandishing a doll suitcase and ceremoniously tossed it onto my bed. “If you’re going to run away, you’ll need a suitcase.” She opened one of my dresser drawers. “Here, let me help you pack a few things.” She grabbed a change of clothes and my pajamas then closed the lid of the suitcase. “I’ve called your grandmother, and she’s expecting you. Oh,” she turned and faced me, “here’s a sack lunch with a peanut butter sandwich and bag of potato chips. Now, give me your wrist.” Mother tied one of her delicate handkerchiefs around my wrist. “Be careful with this handkerchief. Inside it is 25 cents so you can stop along the way and get something to drink.” She took my hand and escorted me out the front door placing my lunch sack and tiny suitcase in the rear saddlebags of my bike. “Call me when you get to Granny’s house. Remember I love you.” Mother calmly turned around and went inside, closing the screen door behind her. Although my 10-year-old ego was bruised, I had to save face. I was left with no other choice but to hop aboard my bike and ride away. I pedaled to a nearby park; camped under a huge shade tree; and fell asleep listening to the locusts’ soothing summertime lullaby. When I awoke, I smelt Mother’s handkerchief; it smelled like her. I knew I had to go home. I pedaled home and parked my bike adjacent to the house. I gingerly opened the screen door and entered the living room. Mother momentarily looked up from her crossword puzzle. “Glad you’re home.” I snuggled next to Mother on the couch. She hugged me in silence, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead. Thankfully, Mother was not prone to indignation, guilt, or “I told you so.” Running away is not the solution for disappointment, frustration, and anger—a life lesson Mother lovingly taught without saying a word. MOTHER I felt her soft touch motherly kiss on tired eyes her scent filled the room the tenderness of spring; unfolding; forgiving I saw this in you the shawl in winter the water-quenching summer the cover from rain