As Little Will and I made our way back to Boston from Kripalu, he reminded me that we had been down this road before. Not the physical road. The metaphysical one.
"Remember?” he said. “You were six. Easton Road."
And, suddenly, I was no longer driving east on the Mass Pike. I was travelling southwest on Easton Road. In Dallas, Texas. And it was 1972.
I was in the backseat of my dad's blue Ford. My mom was in the front; my older sister, all pig-tailed and freckled, was in the back to my right. I have no idea where we were going. But I remembered that moment vividly. After locking it away for 30+ years.
I remember looking at the back of my dad's head, black with a few flecks of grey. He was staring straight ahead, hands at 10 and 2, cigarette in the ashtray. Silent. My mom and my sister both were talking, in that relaxed, funny, easy way that makes up most of life's moments. Especially the ones we forget. Every now and then, my mom would let out a laugh that travelled up and down the scales like the most accomplished pianist.
And me? I was taking it all in. (For once) in silence and (for once) just like my dad. I remember looking to the right and seeing a children's doctor's building. That was my life as I knew it, not in that particular building, but in general. I was a sickly kid. They didn't know if I'd live past ten. Many of my initial memories are of being sick, being in bed, being in a doctor's office or being in a hospital.
Then I looked to my left, pressing my face up against the window, as the buzz of my mom and sister's chatter turned into background noise. I watched the whirring cars, I looked at the buildings going by, I saw the trees, the grass, the crows. And I thought to myself, "Hmmm. This is all make-believe.”
It wasn’t a logical conclusion, I hadn’t worked it out in my head. I just knew. That nothing in my world, nothing in any world, was real.
It was all, simply, a dream. A dream that I had made up.
I remember that moment, that knowing, hung in the air for a long time, frozen.
Then I looked to my left, pressing my face up against the window, as the buzz of my mom and sister's chatter turned into background noise. I watched the whirring cars, I looked at the buildings going by, I saw the trees, the grass, the crows. And I thought to myself, "Hmmm. This is all make-believe.”
It wasn’t a logical conclusion, I hadn’t worked it out in my head. I just knew. That nothing in my world, nothing in any world, was real.
It was all, simply, a dream. A dream that I had made up.
I remember that moment, that knowing, hung in the air for a long time, frozen.
Until the sound of my sister saying “Maa-uuu-mmmm” as only a little girl can say to her mother burst the moment and returned me to the backseat where I again looked at the back of my dad’s head and knew that I could never tell anyone what I had just realized. Because, even at six, I already knew they’d think I was crazy.
So, rather than say anything, I locked up the moment, the knowing. And, instead, I spent 30-odd years feeding the dream. Until Raven broke the lock off.
“This time,” Little Will said, as we took the Copley exit off the Mass Pike and rolled into Boston, “this time, we’re not getting off the road.”
"Remember?” he said. “You were six. Easton Road."
And, suddenly, I was no longer driving east on the Mass Pike. I was travelling southwest on Easton Road. In Dallas, Texas. And it was 1972.
I was in the backseat of my dad's blue Ford. My mom was in the front; my older sister, all pig-tailed and freckled, was in the back to my right. I have no idea where we were going. But I remembered that moment vividly. After locking it away for 30+ years.
I remember looking at the back of my dad's head, black with a few flecks of grey. He was staring straight ahead, hands at 10 and 2, cigarette in the ashtray. Silent. My mom and my sister both were talking, in that relaxed, funny, easy way that makes up most of life's moments. Especially the ones we forget. Every now and then, my mom would let out a laugh that travelled up and down the scales like the most accomplished pianist.
And me? I was taking it all in. (For once) in silence and (for once) just like my dad. I remember looking to the right and seeing a children's doctor's building. That was my life as I knew it, not in that particular building, but in general. I was a sickly kid. They didn't know if I'd live past ten. Many of my initial memories are of being sick, being in bed, being in a doctor's office or being in a hospital.
Then I looked to my left, pressing my face up against the window, as the buzz of my mom and sister's chatter turned into background noise. I watched the whirring cars, I looked at the buildings going by, I saw the trees, the grass, the crows. And I thought to myself, "Hmmm. This is all make-believe.”
It wasn’t a logical conclusion, I hadn’t worked it out in my head. I just knew. That nothing in my world, nothing in any world, was real.
It was all, simply, a dream. A dream that I had made up.
I remember that moment, that knowing, hung in the air for a long time, frozen.
Then I looked to my left, pressing my face up against the window, as the buzz of my mom and sister's chatter turned into background noise. I watched the whirring cars, I looked at the buildings going by, I saw the trees, the grass, the crows. And I thought to myself, "Hmmm. This is all make-believe.”
It wasn’t a logical conclusion, I hadn’t worked it out in my head. I just knew. That nothing in my world, nothing in any world, was real.
It was all, simply, a dream. A dream that I had made up.
I remember that moment, that knowing, hung in the air for a long time, frozen.
Until the sound of my sister saying “Maa-uuu-mmmm” as only a little girl can say to her mother burst the moment and returned me to the backseat where I again looked at the back of my dad’s head and knew that I could never tell anyone what I had just realized. Because, even at six, I already knew they’d think I was crazy.
So, rather than say anything, I locked up the moment, the knowing. And, instead, I spent 30-odd years feeding the dream. Until Raven broke the lock off.
“This time,” Little Will said, as we took the Copley exit off the Mass Pike and rolled into Boston, “this time, we’re not getting off the road.”
RSS Feed