Memories

It was a familiar sound, but one that I had not heard for quite some time - the sound of someone crying out in the middle of the night. I used to sleep so lightly, both dreading and welcoming the sound of the midnight crying. I dreaded it because, for years, I coveted a good, sound sleep without ever getting one. And I welcomed it because I knew that when the boys woke up at night, I would be the only one who could comfort them.

And so, two nights ago, Jack woke up crying. It wasn't a nightmare, it was a fever, and a high fever at that. He was confused and disoriented and in pain. He had to throw up, but his head hurt so badly that the light made him scream. We put him in our bed and tried to settle back in, but he was restless and hurting and confused. Every few minutes he would wake up crying. Again and again this happened, every ten minutes or so.

And I couldn't comfort him. I could not make it better. He wanted me, but this time he knew that I simply could not help him. So I sat with him while he cried, silently rubbing his back and feeling totally useless. But then I remembered...

I was in the seventh grade at a new school that none of my friends attended. I hated this school, hated our new house, and hated my family for making the move to a new school without my permission. Seventh grade for a girl is not easy under the best of circumstances, but this was simply too much.

I tried making friends, but I wasn't having any luck. My old friends told me that I could make new friends by joining a club. The first club that was having tryouts was called Kaleidoscope. It was a singing/dancing club with horribly awful red dresses for the girls and dress shirts for the red-cheeked dancing pretty boys. My music teacher pushed everyone to audition and I thought I had a chance. I tried out to a song that I did not know and checked the wall everyday after school for the new Kaleidescope team list. When it was finally posted, I was not on the list. Plain and simple, cut and dry.

There was no one to talk to, no one to listen, no one.

The busride home was even longer and lonelier than usual. On the walk home from the bus stop, I don't think my eyes left the sidewalk one time. I remember being very deliberate about putting one foot in front of the other. I kept telling myself that it was no big deal, but my stomach wouldn't let me get away with that.

When I finally got in the door, I finally allowed the tears to fall. They fell and fell. My bed welcomed me and I hid my head under it's covers, vowing to stay there forever.

My bedroom door opened and I felt the edge of my bed sink with the weight of an unknown person. I felt the weight of a hand that could only be a father's hand on my back. No words, no questions, no speeches, no promises. Just a hand. I sobbed for lost friends, for lost confidence, for lost choices. I sobbed for hate of a school, for hate of that time, for hate of district lines. I don't know how long I cried, but I do remember that hand that silently rubbed my back and the weight of it's strength. I knew that we weren't a touchy family and I certainly didn't like to be touched, but for some reason, this didn't feel so strange.

I cried myself to sleep that day and when I awoke and decided to get up again, never was a word spoken about the events of that day.

Rubbing Jack's back in the middle of the night took me back to that sudden, vivid memory from years ago. It reminded me that sometimes loving someone is all I can do, although I long to do more. And it reminded me that there is nothing in this world better than a strong but gentle touch to get you through the darkest hour.