Scenes from {My Mom's} Life: Mikey

Happy December, friends!

This month I'm featuring a very special edition of Scenes from Life. It's a testament to the lasting effects of love and friendship, and it was written by an incredibly talented, but non-blogging, guest writer; so, grab a tissue and settle in --- because nobody tells a story like my mom.

Mikey

by Janie

We must have been a sight. Him, blond-haired and plump, still holding onto the sweet look of a toddler even though he no longer was one; me, my once blond hair beginning to darken, unruly, skinny, growing like a weed, they said, with knees stained red from the red clay dirt that touched every surface of the town. If things had turned out the way they should have, age and gender differences would have separated us eventually. I like to think we would have smiled at one another across the gap.

Time has softened the edges of my memories. Our friendship may have lasted a summer or more. In those days, when I still lived completely in the moment, a week would have been enough. If things had turned out the way they should have, you might say I would have forgotten Mikey, but I’ve lived long enough to know better. We can forget any memory that lives in our brain, but we never forget the ones that live in our heart; and, in all these years, my heart hasn’t let so many people in that it's had to turn someone out to make space.

I have a few clear memories of how we spent our time. We walked up and down the dirt road between our houses. We drank the Kool-Aid our moms handed out through back screen doors. We sat on logs, stacks of wood, or concrete steps --- we were nearly always outside --- and we talked a lot about buying diamonds for our mothers, or, depending on how the day was going, maybe some other lucky family member. Mostly, we were planning to buy them for each other.

Memories are strange. Sometimes they’re fickle and the things you think you should remember escape you, while random things remain, either in their entirety or in vivid bits. I remember it being a beautiful summer day. My mother was working outside. I was playing in the yard, and then I didn’t feel well. My neck felt stiff and my head ached. My mother was uncharacteristically brisk when I told her, saying that if I didn’t feel well I should go inside and lie down --- the mothers’ litmus test. I remember lying in bed feeling strange and a little neglected, but it’s probably the events that followed that make me remember all this. My mother came in and checked on me. She seemed different, less distracted. I started to feel better and got up after a bit. Later, women started coming over. They were talking to my mother, sometimes in hushed tones, and sometimes not. I was still small enough that my impressions were mostly of their legs and skirts, and their voices above me.

The women brought the details. It happened quickly.

Mikey died in a small town hospital, and what I remember most are the descriptions of his parents’ reactions. Those are etched in my heart, as if I knew the burden was too heavy for them to carry alone. I never knew what the illness was, but it almost surely would have had a different outcome today. I sometimes wonder about the way I felt that day, if my symptoms mirrored his, whether our hearts were somehow communicating. I’ll never know.

I only know that Mikey was my friend.