thornton

in kindergarten we had assigned seats, and i sat beside a little brown-haired girl. mostly i remember how she colored. light, even strokes with the crayons, always stayed inside the lines. perfect. no matter how hard i tried, my crayons always found a way to cross the line and ruin the picture, a big mark of red where only yellow should be. when we made mother's day cards, it was more of the same. she cut construction paper into the shapes of flowers and neatly glued them to the front of the card. i sat beside her with a sinking feeling. even if i had the imagination to create such a masterpiece, i didn't have the dexterity to cut such intricate shapes. nor the time. i had spent most of the class period sitting there, waiting for some inspiration, anything, to get me started. now i was running out of time. i hurriedly cut small rectangles from different colored construction paper, and glued them all to the front of the card. as a finishing touch, the teacher wrote 'happy mothers day' on the inside because we couldn't write yet.

it was a few blocks to walk from school to home. winter was over, but spring hadn't quite warmed up completely. i carried my books under my left arm. in those days, no one had yet considered the notion of backpacks for school children. my coat added bulk but didn't really keep me warm, and it made it hard to keep my books from slipping. the wind was strong and gusty. suddenly, as if fate decided to play the meanest trick possible on a five-year-old, the card was pulled out of my grip and carried off by the wind. i dropped my books and ran after it, but quickly lost any hope of ever catching it. before i had run ten steps, it was already a small speck in the distance and moving away fast. i stood there in disbelief as it disappeared across the bare field. by the time i gathered my books and continued toward home, hot angry tears were already stinging my cheeks. i walked more slowly now; there was no hurry. as pathetic as the card had been, it was all i had. now i had nothing.

by the time i got home the tears had stopped, but my mood had not improved. i sulked and avoided everyone, not wanting to face the moment when i had to admit that i had been so careless and stupid as to come home empty-handed. my sister Brenda saw that i was brooding, and somehow got me to tell her what had happened. the tears began steaming in my eyes as i relived the moment. she listened, and then said "aww, come on. what do you say, let's make you another one?"
reluctant to let go of my loss and my self-pity, i mumbled, "it wouldn't be the same." as if that were a bad thing.
but she nudged me along. "i know it won't, but it will be alright. come on, i'll help you."

truthfully, she made the card, and i sat there and watched. she didn't have any construction paper, so she took a sheet of notebook paper and folded it in half. she sketched a rabbit on the front, carrying a basket with flowers. then she found some colored pencils and lightly colored in brown for the fur, pink for the nose. i noticed that she colored as well or even better than the little brown-haired girl at school. she finished it off by writing happy mothers' day mom. love, leonard on the inside. then she handed it to me and said, "there you go. how's that?" to be honest, it looked more like an easter card to me, but i didn't say that. she had rescued me. i don't remember if i told her thank you, but i hope i did.

i remember running to give the card to my mom, and her responding something like "why, thank you. that's real nice." probably not a moment she remembered for long, but it's too late to ask her now. eventually, if i live long enough, i will have a hundred questions i wish i had asked. how did you choose my name? how did you meet pap? when did you stop loving him? what dreams did you leave unlived? i don't remember you hugging me, did you? do you remember when we lived at thornton...