“Might I,” quavered Mary, “might I have a bit of earth?”...“Earth!” he repeated. “What do you mean?”“To plant seeds in–to make things grow–to see them come alive,” Mary faltered. He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes...“A bit of earth,” he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. “You can have as much earth as you want,” he said. “You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, “take it, child, and make it come alive.” “May I take it from anywhere–if it’s not wanted?”
Saturday, May 19, 2012
I started out yesterday mourning you for him--thinking I should somehow help him honor you. We went out for breakfast with Memaw (that's my mom--his new grandmother). We then went home and did some cleaning. Afterward, I took him to the park to let him play. That's when I got angry -- at you.
When we are at home, I don't always notice his deficits -- and I forget that he is 10 and not 5. But, when I take him out around other kids and see his difficulty and unwillingness to interact with his peers, I get angry and frustrated. When I see his fear of simple things...like monkey bars and swings, it makes me sick to my stomach. When I see him struggle to perform simple physical tasks, I struggle with hating you.
What you have done to him will stay with him forever. Sure, he will heal, but he will always have effects of the alcohol you drank when he was in your womb. He will make it, but he will always be haunted by the things you have personally done to him, allowed to be done to him, and simply failed to do for him. I am sorry for sounding harsh and unforgiving, but these are the feelings I struggle with. What I find so heart wrenching is that your inability to stop producing children you couldn't care for has damaged his ability to give and receive love--one of the most innate abilities we have as humans. It's unacceptable. It's inhumane. It's the worst form of abuse he has endured.
I truly hope that someday B is able to forgive you. I have made the choice to forgive you--although my feelings don't always follow my choices right away.
Even though I know you'll never read this: B is safe, he is loved, he is cared for and has a loving family. Most of all, he is happy.