Precious

  Precious

As a child    you would

like to have been seen as precious.

That there was a moment when

all those eyes gathered outside the

maternity ward window came to

gaze down upon you

in your cozy bassinet,

and then…   those words.

Each individual struggling to be

the first to utter them.

“Ah, isn’t he precious?”

And of course everyone

nods    in agreement.

And that moment…

That   precise moment…

That was very well the last time

you were ever truly precious.

Shortly after this you

came to crap your pants

for the very first time, and

there began your fall from grace.

Oh, I suppose in a way

you were still precious.

Simply lesser so with each full diaper,

or     equivalent fecal mistake

on your    decadent way to death.

I suppose there is

that moment before death

when it’s possible to be seen

as precious yet again.

Yes, when infantile transitions to senile.

Bookends to that span of life

in between where your every action

is rendered stark via   brutal critique.

My mother told me to be careful.

That the lamp was indeed precious.

That it could not   be replaced.

Something compared to which I

   was   not held in the

   same   high   esteem.

I figured the message here

was that I could be replaced.

Indeed with only the slightest physical effort

upon my father’s part, and

another one of me

could easily be at hand.

The oil lamp in question

had belonged to my mother’s grandmother,

and after so many coveted generations,

had finally passed into her hands.

There was Grandma Mary,

and there was Grandma Mary’s lamp.

In many ways,  one and the same.

Precious.

The lamp sat atop an upright piano.

A substantial bit of furniture.

Something you would think a small boy

could not shift in weight.

Something that one small boy

did   in fact    manage to do.

And there came that afternoon

when that lamp managed to

topple from its place

and cascade to the floor below

with a horrible sickening crash.

And somehow  my mother knew.

Within seconds, she passed from kitchen

to slowly emerge into the living room.

And there she came to stand,

looking down upon me

and her precious lamp

which now lay in shards

there    at my feet.

And me?     

I am awaiting that

explosion of fury

I so rightly   deserve,

and yet     nothing.

Absolutely  nothing.

There   upon her stoic face,

a most eerie    calm.

And then,   after the pass

of what appeared   eternity,

words come to emit   from her mouth.

Without looking up from the lamp,

she dryly states,

“Get out   of the house.”

Not an exclamation of anger, but

a simple sedate phrase:

“Get out of the house.”

And there, quickly making my exit,

I crossed the lawn to pass

deep into the adjacent woods

where I hid   for a full  two hours.

I was most certainly not precious

   and   knew it.

Years later my mother conveyed

how she fell to her knees and sobbed.

And why had she uttered those words,

“Get out of the house”?

It was because she wanted to   save me.

That at that moment, her utmost desire

was to strike me   with her fist.

Not something one does with that

which is supposedly precious.

A few years before this,

the woman who had given her that lamp

had fallen down a flight of stairs.

Someone we knew of as “Mary”.

The Mary who stood at the top of

   those ill-fated stairs,

and not she who ended up

there at the bottom like a

shattered and ruined lamp.

Well, not so much in body,

but rather in   being.

There within that mind,

this was   tied to that.

String to strand.

A matrix of woven psyche that

had here been ripped   asunder.

A multitude of broken strings

now wadded and wound into a

large   misshapen   sphere.

This synaptic string and that,

once having served specific needs,

but now all   bound together—

compressed into a ball which

held no other purpose than

to roll across the floor and

careen between the legs

 of each and every 

 mislaid chair.

As a child it is understood

that our minds have yet to mature. 

That we’ve yet to be strung as it were.

That we are often incapable

of knowing what is best. That

we are apt to make mistakes

of which time may or

may not permit a certain forgiveness.

With senility there comes

this understanding

that the fabric of our being

has become thread-worn

   and tattered.

And though for this we are often

forgiven by others,

it is something we sadly

will not forgive ourselves.

The last time I saw Mary

was at a family gathering.

Afflicted beneath the sledge of 

multiple strokes, she was

wheeled into an adjacent room

and left to sit by herself.

An enforced solitude

for the fact that

the other adults

remembered her

for who she once was

and herewith could not bear

to see what she’d   become.

As a child I knew no better.

Did not know that my

Great Grandma Mary

had become one who

was now incapable

of the simplest act of conversation.

For me…

For me she was still there.

I mean…   

She was     wasn’t she?

And there as I knelt down before her,

her random gaze

came to reflect   that of mine.

Tears welled forth

from her long lost eyes,

as she came to acknowledge

   one small boys presence.

And there from her lips a

simple phrase came to repeat

   over and over.

“Let’s go.

   Let’s go.

      Let’s go.”

Again and again.

A mantra of brutal anguish.

And I wish I could have taken her

out through the door,

   across the lawn and

       there into

           the distant woods.

Out to a place where

she and I could hide together.

For you see

out in the woods,

you can often

    find

self-   

    forgiveness.

©2010 Jack Hubbell