Seasons of Rain

Before the seasons of rain came, I never contemplated me or who I was. I was just me. I was me before him or them, all of them, all seven of them. I was me before the gray hair hid that woman who I had been, the girl I knew that was still buried deep inside. I lost that confused and hungry child along with the business of life’s journey. The shell grew old, and it became quiet, but the kernel never aged, nor could I hear her cry, if she ever did, for the cries of the youth who had replaced her in the emptied space, were like the oceans rolling in and out, always loud, always pulling or pushing.

But just as routine would move in, a new season of rain would come, washing in the grays in the different ways sending out a new personality to play. Even as laughter pushed past with whimpering delights each year in either winter or spring, it was dulled by the worries of death that might come in the night. Or worse yet, some knock on the door of some other critic who with authority would say, “Hey, that’s not quite right!” That underlying current of fear was always holding the moment captivity, always afraid that the ‘they’ would snatch my precious work away for a better position, one without me in it.

The fierceness of motherhood would come through the storms bringing all the torrents of strains and monsoons of so many pains and losses along the way. There were no vacations, but the sweet giggles of a snuggling baby were Heaven enough. Soon, that was replaced by the tantrums of a toddler learning to adjust to the idea that they were not the center of the world. As they reached the top of the corn so quickly one Fourth of July, they raced to the doctors with another illness or hurt of their own, leaving me with no independence at all.

The mirror would reflect the deeper question of wondering if I was losing more than I had gained. It seemed that everyone wanted my children, but no one wanted me. I had become no fun with rules to keep the order, to decide the injustice of matters brought to me, to hand out the sentences like I was some kind of one-woman trial with me, myself, and I. Who was the judge? Who was the jury and who was I?

Finally, while I was thinking it would be quiet for a bit, the teenagers began to bite at every corner of any boundary remaining in place that had meant to protect. They didn’t see it was me that they were biting, or maybe they did and simply didn’t care. After all, who was I but the one who had set everything aside for them. I was only the girl hidden within the shell that was once the vibrant woman filled with hopes and dreams and thoughts of life bigger than some argued over dishpan that never emptied because they were fed, or clothes that were cute and that weren’t the size of European shoes.

Just when the pressure was overwhelming, every one of those storms passed leaving a new lesson in its place, a ray of sunshine to light the new day: I had time to contemplate me as they began reaching adulthood like drunken sailors falling off the dock. The tears that had been mixed with the polished pearls of laughter were as faded as my hair color had since become. The halls had grown silent. The helping hands were lost. Almost alone at last, I was wondering who I was looking at, the one who was sporting the old Mother’s gray.

There in a moment of silence, I heard a small voice who asked if I remembered who she was? She came out for a bit to introduce herself like I had forgotten. She introduced herself as a lost friend and as the one who: wanted to explore, to paint a new picture, to learn a new skill, to sing a new song, to bring out a new suit. She reminded me that while the eyes might be saggier, they could still see well enough, and it was time to see a new me. Neh, it was time to see the old me. It was time to meet me back where the me was before the seasons of rain came. It was time to set that little girl free as the only friend I had who stayed through the storms of life, who embraced the mother’s grays.

I had heard a growing sound all along, but I didn’t contemplate what it could be. Surprising to me, it was the old me lost inside the storm of the mother’s gray where it used to be dark, only she hadn’t aged one bit. Somewhere along the way I also realized I didn’t have to contemplate any longer about who I was or what should have been or what could have been, because there was a new world out there. That new world still needs a little girl all grown up.

The idea had brought a smile to my weary face to know that she had kept her own spark alive waiting for the tired old me to come back and get her because she understood better than I, that I had been too busy to care for her or I. And she who had been there before the seasons of rain had planted the latest Mother’s grays when I wasn’t watching, but she was holding the light so that I could see the silver lining where the clouds had been shrouded in doubt.