things that Mom would like. “Like Power Rangers?” he asked. Only he said it, “Li-i-ike, like, um, uh, uh, like, li-i-i-ike Power Rangers?” He’s not like normal stutterers, who can’t get their consonants out. Sammy stutters vowels. He fills space with whining gibberish like he’s mentally retarded, but really he’s not at all. He’s really very smart.
I said, “Yeah, like Power Rangers. And flowers and cats and walks in the woods.” He said, “And, and, a-a-and treasure hunts a-a-a-and mazes?” I said, “Sure.” Then he said, “And, and, a-a-and that will make Mom come home?” I said, “No.” So he’s probably drawing a psycho snake picture.
Okay. Just now I said to him, “Maybe Mom can see you wherever she is, and she wants to see you draw something she’d like, not a snake that would scare her.” That made a strong impression on Sammy. He put down his journal and cried his little eyes out, stuttering, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I-I-I’m sorry I scared you.” Little kids cry so hard they break your heart.
He ran to his room and came back with a toy Power Ranger. It’s a girl Ranger, a light blue one that he never played with before in his life. Mom used it when they played Power Rangers together. Mom would draw a map on the walkway, like a crazy hopscotch, and she’d put bad guys and wild animals in the squares. Then the Power Rangers would travel the map fighting the bad guys until they saved the world.
Mom said she and I used to play that game too, and we watched Power Rangers on tv together when I was little and it came on at a decent time instead of 6:30 Sunday morning. I don’t remember ever watching Power Rangers . I remember a few things from when I was Sammy’s age, but not much. I don’t remember starting school.
Mom made a kindergarten book for me, to hold the drawings and crafts I made. It has my class picture in it, but I don’t remember any of the kids. I can recognize Simpson, but I don’t remember playing with him back then. Mom has stories in the book about things I said and shows I watched and places I went. We went to England that year and I saw Stonehenge and Windsor Castle and all kinds of cool things I don’t remember at all.
That means Sammy won’t remember Mom by the time he’s twelve. And maybe I won’t remember her by the time I’m twenty. This is the saddest thought I’ve had since she died—and I’ve had a lot of sad thoughts.
Mom and I were really close. She’d tell me nice things about myself, and she’d make my favorite peanut-butter cookies on Sunday even though no one else likes them, and she’d take me to the IMAX whenever a new show came to town. She’d tell me funny jokes and ask if I’d heard any good ones lately. And sometimes I would make her laugh so hard that I could see her fillings and she’d smack the table and cackle like a witch. It was a great feeling to make her laugh like that.
If I forget all that, it will be like it never happened. And even though one day we’ll all be dead, and even the earth and the sun will be dead, it just seems wrong to forget Mom while I’m alive and she’s not.
Sammy won’t remember anything she did for him—the songs she made up and the games she played and the stories she read, and all the good things she brought into his life that are gone now. He’ll have an empty hole where Mom should be. And even if she’s dead, there should be something there besides a hole.
I’m going to make a scrapbook about Mom, like she did about me in kindergarten. Sammy and I can keep it forever, like a memory shelf, except it’s a book.
I just realized that when Sammy ran to his room to get the blue Power Ranger, he ran forward, not backward. So there’s hope for him yet. I forgot to ask our neighbor about the five-year-old soccer team, but I’ll try to remember before my game tomorrow.
I’m in a better mood now and it’s really late, so I should go to bed. Sammy’s head is hanging down near his
I said, “Yeah, like Power Rangers. And flowers and cats and walks in the woods.” He said, “And, and, a-a-and treasure hunts a-a-a-and mazes?” I said, “Sure.” Then he said, “And, and, a-a-and that will make Mom come home?” I said, “No.” So he’s probably drawing a psycho snake picture.
Okay. Just now I said to him, “Maybe Mom can see you wherever she is, and she wants to see you draw something she’d like, not a snake that would scare her.” That made a strong impression on Sammy. He put down his journal and cried his little eyes out, stuttering, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I-I-I’m sorry I scared you.” Little kids cry so hard they break your heart.
He ran to his room and came back with a toy Power Ranger. It’s a girl Ranger, a light blue one that he never played with before in his life. Mom used it when they played Power Rangers together. Mom would draw a map on the walkway, like a crazy hopscotch, and she’d put bad guys and wild animals in the squares. Then the Power Rangers would travel the map fighting the bad guys until they saved the world.
Mom said she and I used to play that game too, and we watched Power Rangers on tv together when I was little and it came on at a decent time instead of 6:30 Sunday morning. I don’t remember ever watching Power Rangers . I remember a few things from when I was Sammy’s age, but not much. I don’t remember starting school.
Mom made a kindergarten book for me, to hold the drawings and crafts I made. It has my class picture in it, but I don’t remember any of the kids. I can recognize Simpson, but I don’t remember playing with him back then. Mom has stories in the book about things I said and shows I watched and places I went. We went to England that year and I saw Stonehenge and Windsor Castle and all kinds of cool things I don’t remember at all.
That means Sammy won’t remember Mom by the time he’s twelve. And maybe I won’t remember her by the time I’m twenty. This is the saddest thought I’ve had since she died—and I’ve had a lot of sad thoughts.
Mom and I were really close. She’d tell me nice things about myself, and she’d make my favorite peanut-butter cookies on Sunday even though no one else likes them, and she’d take me to the IMAX whenever a new show came to town. She’d tell me funny jokes and ask if I’d heard any good ones lately. And sometimes I would make her laugh so hard that I could see her fillings and she’d smack the table and cackle like a witch. It was a great feeling to make her laugh like that.
If I forget all that, it will be like it never happened. And even though one day we’ll all be dead, and even the earth and the sun will be dead, it just seems wrong to forget Mom while I’m alive and she’s not.
Sammy won’t remember anything she did for him—the songs she made up and the games she played and the stories she read, and all the good things she brought into his life that are gone now. He’ll have an empty hole where Mom should be. And even if she’s dead, there should be something there besides a hole.
I’m going to make a scrapbook about Mom, like she did about me in kindergarten. Sammy and I can keep it forever, like a memory shelf, except it’s a book.
I just realized that when Sammy ran to his room to get the blue Power Ranger, he ran forward, not backward. So there’s hope for him yet. I forgot to ask our neighbor about the five-year-old soccer team, but I’ll try to remember before my game tomorrow.
I’m in a better mood now and it’s really late, so I should go to bed. Sammy’s head is hanging down near his
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