“...Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing
Mama's gonna keep baby cozy and warm…”
-Mother, by Pink Floyd
I like sad stories. They make me feel more grateful for the happy times. I like to tell sad stories at night, when the house is quiet and the world outside is dark. Darker than my mind but not that much, as the world has taken its share of me. Here is one about a mother and son.
My father was driving our old brown station wagon. It had bucket seats in the back and smelled like cigarette smoke. My mother was in the passenger seat and I sat directly behind her. I could see my father’s receding hairline and angry face from where I sat. I was twelve. My mom wore her large, black sunglasses, the typical 1982 look, and tears were streaming down her face. She often wore those glasses to cover blackened eyes that were a result of an argument or just the occasional beating that my father inflicted on her to show his power and control. On this particular day, she also tried to cover up the dried blood that had filled her left nostril, which I noticed when I leaned over to touch her shoulder from the back seat. When I saw the blood and the redness on her cheek from below her glasses, I was both enraged and scared simultaneously. I wanted him dead.
Just weeks before, when I came down from the roof of our house and peaked around the corner, I saw my mother crying through the patio window as she sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. On this occasion, she struggled to sit because she had been hit in the back. I know this kind of pain because my father often struck my back as well. This is the same day that I went downstairs and loaded a shotgun that laid to rest on our gun rack. My plan was to walk upstairs and shoot a slug into my father’s large chest as he read his newspaper. He would never see it coming. It is never good for a twelve year old to have murderous thoughts.
As my dad turned the steering wheel of the station wagon, taking us off of the highway onto Pflaum Road where my middle school was, I thought about killing him again. I wanted him dead for what he did to my mom. I needed to protect her. I knew I could not overpower him with my twelve year old body, but I did have a pocket knife and for several moments as he drove down the road, passing my school, I fondled the knife in my front pocket and visualized sticking the blade in his neck. Again, murderous thoughts are never good for a twelve year old, but I loved my mother more than life itself, and I wanted nothing more than to protect her. I let the knife settle in my pocket, failing at being a protective son.
I had on my headphones that were connected to my walkman, and the cassette that I listened to was Pink Floyd’s, The Wall. My favorite song on the album was “Mother.” I played it over and over and knew the lyrics by heart. From a young age, Pink Floyd has always had an impact on me. The lyrics and artistry just seemed to seep deep into my soul and settle there, making me feel something I have not felt before my preadolescence came storming in. As my mom cried, and the song “Mother” was sung by Roger Waters and David Gilmour into my youthful ears, I tried to hold back tears. At that moment, all that my twelve year old self knew to do, the only thing I thought might help my mom, was to gently place the headphones over her ears, rewind the song, and play it to her. She listened as tears continued to fall down her cheeks to the collar of her springtime nit shirt. When the song finished, she handed the headphones back to me, held my hand for a moment and whispered, “I love you” through trembling lips.
I was running in the woods today. I ran and listened to Pink Floyd. I played on repeat for a couple of miles the song, “Mother,” and as I listened to the lyrics pour from my earbuds: “...Mama's gonna wait up 'til you get in, Mama will always find out where you've been…” I paused my stride and cried. I wept fat tears underneath the canopy of the trees, on the dirt trail, as the squirrels rustled the fallen leaves. I cried because my mother will never be able to wait up until I get in again. She will not know where I have been. I cried because she is able to rest and her past is behind her. I cried because she once had a life where she had to worry about black, swollen eyes, and bloody noses. I cried because I could not protect her and all I could do was offer her a song, one I listen to often, and sometimes in the woods where I feel safe from the rest of the world. A place where I feel safe from my past.
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