Eleven, Part One of Three

 

1) "That's my chair," you say, if someone sits at your particular spot at the end of our kitchen table, where you sit crisscross applesauce and look up at me most mornings as I emerge from the shower to say, "You look nice today, Mom."

 

2) From your thrown, you spell: firefly, funnier, happiest, on a large well-used whiteboard. When your sister sits beside you with a whiteboard of her own, you race to form large letters, on the edge of legibility, and swipe your paper towel across them as soon as you make the last mark.

"Elias! I can't see!" Olive whines, so you bury your head closer to your spelling words and write as if chased by the wind, by mosquitos, by a boat you can't miss, chased by the the approaching steps of your opponent, by loss, by the failings of muscles following messages from the mind, chased by Shakespeare and mythology and generations of siblings juggling jealousy and spite.  You write: trying, eye, copy, hurried, deny, rely, contrast, empty.

 

3) You scream and slap my leg, claw at my face, a hyena mixed with bear, a fire alarm, a twister, neurons firing not quite right, a monster, mayhem, might-- a fight with my heart in the form of an eleven-year-old boy, my son, with hands almost bionic from years of walking with canes, you swipe at me, claws raised, and shout in a strangulated voice not yours, "I WANT TO HURT YOU!!!!"

 

4) "I don't know," you always say, when I ask you later why you acted that way.

"My mind just told me to throw things, " you told me after one of your more recent storms.

"Well what could you say to that part of your mind?" I asked as I smoothed the six blankets you like (in order) over your tired little bones.

"No," you say, like usual.

Or if I'm asking you to do something: "Ok."

As if rehearsing these words, when calm, will somehow prevent the six-bell alarm that sends your nervous system into full-freak out mode.

I place my hand on your head, like I once did in the NICU, where you spent those 94 days, not in the nest of my womb but poked and prodded and cut open and patched together again, where you almost died and your Dad and I became parents, learning to love each other with our hearts on the outside, so we can stand together, beside you, with no guarantees.

"I always love you," I say.  "Even when I'm sad."

You rub your eyes that I long to fall inside but you hide from me, and say, "Love you too... Can you fill my water?"

 

Comments

[Elliesee]

I will throw it out there but was complex partial epilepsy considered for him? A few of my special needs students had it and it explain puzzling aggressive behavior. Love your writing, and a happy birthday to Elias:)