Healing

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The night was black, the windows drawn, and throughout the house there seemed a hush known only to the creatures of silent darkness. This night, I was restless and moved about the corners, halls and rooms in my parent's home with a fear hard to describe. The criticism was loud and everpresent in my head. Though no one had spoken to me, I had heard the words so many times before that my body betrayed my soul in repeating them to me as I walked in the silence of the night.

My younger sisters were sound asleep in the downstairs full bed we shared. I was eleven years old and anticipating the next day of school, for our class picture would be taken. My Mother had made me a dress specifically to wear for the occasion; it was pink and gray, my favorite color combination. She made our clothes from the few pennies we didn't spend for groceries. You see, my Daddy was sick and not able to keep a job, so my Mother was the sole breadwinner in our family. I didn't quite understand all that that meant.

There was a faint hint of light coming from a far room, the kitchen I thought, so I slowly made my way. I had to sneak very quietly up the stairs, so I wouldn't waken either of my sisters; they'd loudly join me should I do so. It was as if I was on a secret journey, this slow climb with carefully placed toes on the creaky wooden stairs. A light in the distance drew me on as I anxiously but slowly crept upstairs. Nearing the kitchen, I saw the table aglow with a tiny 25 watt lightbulb from Mother's sewing machine. Though she always took our measurements and then presented us with clothes to wear, I had never seen her at the sewing machine working. The dresses, blouses and slacks seemed to appear with the snap of a finger, to me. To see her now, in the darkness, carefully guiding the material with her left hand as the tread pulled it forward making a seam, was an awesome sight.

Mother was very quiet and seldom spoke; Daddy did most of the talking in our house, and the bossing. For that matter, he was also the one who disciplined us. No one spoke when he was talking and, especially, when he was angry. The discipline we knew was kept secret within the walls of our home. I regret that Mother didn't seem to have a voice in our home. I remember her going to work early in the morning. She was a Registered Nurse and worked at the hospital from 7am until 3pm. She would fix dinner in the evening and sat at the table with us, but for some reason, I never remember her speaking. I only remember Daddy's voice and, this night, his criticism for my being out of bed in the wee hours of the morning reverberated loudly in my mind and scared me.

My Mother was so pretty sitting there at the sewing machine. She had on a nylon robe that revealed the top part of her nightgown beneath it and, as she sewed, the sleeves flowed to and fro almost in slow motion with the speed of her sewing machine, which she controlled with her right foot. The most beautiful thing I saw was the look on her face. The light reflected upwards as little, creating lovely shadows on Mother's face, giving her a serene appearance. She was beautiful to me, but unreachable. Even so, she suddenly saw me standing in the doorway, watching her. It's strange, but I don't remember her speaking to me. I do, however, remember her motioning for me to come and sit beside her and watch what she was doing, which I eagerly did, most quietly, with gratitude.

Sometimes, even in the darkness of very real fear, you can find moments of joy. Such was my night without sleep, many years ago in my parents' home. I will always remember my Mother's gentle face within the soft, small light of her sewing machine, leading material with her left hand and speaking not a single word.

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