Hot and Cold

I remember the red, white, and blue on the cars. I remember the shiny shoes, guns, and badges. I remember the night my reality was broken for the first time. I can see the tears, real or imagined, running down her face. I can hear her screams, whether heartfelt or dramatic creation. I remember the darkness outside and the coolness of the window as I pressed my face to the glass. I can still feel the moisture of my breath on the window. I remember thinking that it was a nightmare. I can feel the pinch I gave myself to wake up from the terrible fright.

And, in an instant, she was gone. But she wasn’t really gone. She was in a trailer a couple miles from where we lived. I used to imagine myself in that trailer, the ants running in the window sill. The day was sunny, and I had run away to be with her. I used to think of the feeling of her embrace as I ran smack into her body. I would lie on the floor of my bedroom, close my eyes, and try smell her house. I could feel the summer heat. The humidity couldn’t be erased by the squeaking ceiling fan. I wanted so badly to feel that stifling heat. I would have given anything to sleep in that barely furnished room. I used to believe that everything would work out.

All of those things that made my mom’s house uniquely hers were suddenly wrong. The temperature at my new house was chilly. They filled my room with senseless and frivolous things, stuffed bears and fluffy dresses. At first, I didn’t partake in any of these silly possessions. I was decidedly against anything that would bring about my happiness in this foreign place. I refused to find joy anywhere but my mother’s presence.

The more I wanted her, the less it seemed she wanted me. At our supervised visitations, I always left destroyed. I kept thinking that one night she would say that it was the night she was taking me home with her. I packed a bag each time and demanded to carry it along. Each time she would hug me, but the tears gradually stopped flowing. Less and less of me was on my sleeve.

And then one day, I stopped believing. I stopped talking to her. It wasn’t a slow fade into nothing. It was a quick, decided move. I had been given a real opportunity. Even at 8 or 9, I knew that I had a better chance at making it if I let go of her. I still saw her, occasionally, in between boyfriends and houses and whatever other drama followed her around, but I never packed a bag again.