Healing the Rose by juliaSjames I Remember writing prompt entry |
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I remember only flashes of my childhood. In fact, I rarely make an effort to recall my life as a little girl. Perhaps this is because there are some memories best left neatly filed away in a forgotten corner of my mind. Whatever the reason, trying to view these memories makes me uncomfortable, like squirming through one of those videos that are so popular at wedding receptions. When I was just one year old, my mother left my grandmother's home where she had been living since her marriage. Granny, or Charles Street Granny as I came to call her to distinguish her from my maternal grandmother, was a strong-minded woman who ruled her household of adult children and domestic help with a rod of iron. My mother was also a woman of a determined and stubborn character. She insisted on things being done her way, especially when it came to the care of her beloved daughter. The inevitable clashes took place, with their full share of histrionics on both sides. My mother flung down the gauntlet. My father did not take her ultimatum seriously. In a matter of days, she made her arrangements and whisked me away to a new life. Eventually there was a divorce. But I didn't know or understand that until much later. Although Dad wasn't living with us, he remained an important part of my life. I saw him every day and, as I grew up, I spent many Sundays with my grandmother and a host of cousins at Charles Street. There were always too many people to fit around the formal dining table at lunch time. So we little ones were relegated to benches at the children's table on the terrace at the back of the house, longing for that far off day when we would graduate to sitting with the grown ups. My mother was a teacher. Her mother, who became just Granny to me, lived with us to help run the house and, of course, to look after me. I have happy memories of growing up in the small house which we shared. Snapshots of pleasure...my cousins and I playing with our dolls in our special hiding place underneath the heavy brocade cloth that covered the dining table...my delight at holding the string of my very own kite, and the humming sound it made as it swayed high up in the sky. Neither Mummy nor Granny cared greatly about animals. Mummy tolerated dogs, but she had a strong aversion to cats. Here I come! For as long as I remember I have adored animals... especially cats. The camera of memory records a short video clip of myself as a three year old thrusting a mewling, terrified kitten on my reluctant mother, and insisting that she pet it. I don't know how I got hold of the cute ball of feline fluff, but I clearly recall my feeling of total incomprehension as to why Mummy didn't want to play with this marvelous toy. It is a tribute to the power of mother love that the kitten stayed - the first of many Pussies who would share my life. Shortly afterwards Bunting arrived. He was the family dog, a spunky mutt that I claimed as my own, and who returned my love with overflowing devotion. The camera rolls again. For weeks I have been inconsolable because my Bunting is lost. Then one afternoon, as I sit on the front steps of our little house with Mummy, I see him...he is racing down the street towards us, white with black patches, barking with joy, a frayed rope tied around his neck. He has escaped from the thief that spirited him away and he has come home. The emotion of that moment has stayed with me all my life. I believe that it accounts for the optimism that marks my character; despite the many times my faith has been put to the test. My love for God's creatures was wide and all encompassing. The object of my affection didn't have to be real. The camera lens captures me weeping with extravagant sorrow over the pitiful adventures of Pookie, a flying rabbit of surpassing silliness, which had got itself lost in the forest. My long-suffering Granny had to read the picture book to me over and over again. This went on for months. If Granny tried to relieve her understandable boredom by skipping passages, Miss Precocious, who had long since memorized the entire text, would insist that she read every word. The name, Pookie, became so ingrained in the fabric of our lives, that it was used as a term of endearment for my own children when they were babies. Then William Blake's "invisible worm" entered the rosebud of my young life. Something happened that obscured the lens of memory with the shadows of fear and darkness. I know that I was very young, not yet four. But I do not remember who assaulted me or what happened. How could I make sense of such a thing? I am certain as I can be that it took place in the home of a family member. I can remember the fussing and lamenting of relatives. I can remember that the incident was never spoken of again. Even at that age I knew that it was a secret, a shameful secret that had to be kept hidden from my mother. Alas! I was a child and I thought as a child. I did not understand that I was a victim. To my childish reasoning, the shameful secret was that it was I who had done something bad and wicked. The video stops. After all these years, I have remembered. To my surprise, I feel no anger. I am happy that I survived. I feel free.
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