I remember the day my uncle left home. We lived close to each other and shared a front yard. I remember the smell of the wet marble when my mom washed the front yard to wish my uncle a safe trip. That day my mom shrank to a seven year old. The seven year old that cried in public, froze in her place, mouth wide open, eyes examining strangers’ faces, not knowing how she had lost her parent. I couldn’t make out why she was upset over her brother leaving. Wasn’t he coming back? Wasn’t she thinking of the souvenirs he’d bring with him like he did the last time? I didn’t understand; I was seven. I was racing my sister down the front yard while my peripheral vision witnessed the crying seven year old. Why was she crying? Didn’t she love my father? I ran at the head of the yard, slid down the wet marble, and stopped myself with an abrupt skid, and hit the yard’s iron door, it banged like a giant bell, and I knew my uncle wasn’t coming back. I looked back at the kitchen’s glass door and saw that my mom had entered the house and left me to my sliding. I saw her back, I thought of my uncle’s back.
She afterward received letters, and photos of my uncle in the snow, so she was sure he was far. I pictured myself sliding down the snow, and I would break into a pile of snow, to only hear a burst of laughter coming from the seven year old, and I would know that she was still watching me, waiting for me to come up the front yard and repeat the sliding. She would like me to slide down to the pile of snow that thuds and doesn’t bang. She would want me in a picture with the snow. She would want me be as far and safe as my uncle.
George Kenner: heavy Snow Fallingin the Courtyard: commons.wikimedia.org
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