... two stories, same "incident", different perspective...
�Mommy!� Jake yelled as he bounded into the kitchen. �Mommy guess what!� He waited about one second before announcing importantly, �We have homework today!�
�That�s great, honey,� I answered absent-mindedly. �What�s that?�
�We hafta make a family tree,� he said, �and write something about one of our gramparents. Will you tell me about Gramma Eleanor?�
�Oh, baby,� I sighed, �you know I was younger than you are when she passed away. I don�t know how much I could give you. Why can�t you write about Grampa?� I refrained from suggesting he question his father about his alcoholic ancestry.
Jake�s bottom lip began to tremble. �But, Mommy! Grampa�s boring and he smells funny. I wanna know about Gramma. Please Mommy?� I looked at his worried face, sighed again, and agreed. I then retreated to my bedroom to dig through an old trunk of childhood miscellanea in hopes of finding something of use for him; all my memory could offer was a soft whisper a quarter-century old and a white cancer-thin hand on my face.
Sorting through the strange array of stuff in the trunk, I came upon an old dusty photograph tucked between the faded pages of a children�s book. A date twenty-five years past was written on the back in my father�s unmistakable scrawl. I turned it over and looked at the black and white picture; a young girl is curled against a thin, sickly-looking woman on a stark white bed. Their eyes are closed, but the expression of sorrow on the woman�s face gave me chills down my spine. I gazed at the photograph for a few moments more, then brushed at a bit of wetness in the corner of my eye and went downstairs to talk to my son.
�Mommy?� she is saying, her blue-green eyes wide and questioning. �Mommy.� I look at her face that isn�t old enough to know yet and all the things I want say are stuck together in my throat, coming out only in a ragged cough.
�Baby�� I breathe almost voicelessly, and reach slowly to touch her blonde curls. My husband comes in then and takes my other hand, but I can�t take my eyes from my baby girl. I try to squeeze his hand in reassurance because I know his eyes are as bright with as many unshed tears as mine but somewhere deep inside I can�t help but feel a pang of jealousy because he and not I will see our baby grow up, and fleetingly I think of how unfair it is.
I try to smile at her and I pat the bed beside me, and she gingerly climbs up to curl up against me. I close my eyes and feel her breath against my neck; all I want is to capture this moment like a snapshot and put it in a little silver locket around her neck. But I know that eventually today will fade from her mind and I hope that her memories of me will not be like this.
The moment passes, of course, and my husband lifts her down from the bed. My eyes drift shut again of their own accord, but I bring my hand to her face once more.
�Mommy�� she says with her voice like bells in my head.
�Baby,� I whisper again. �I love you baby.�