The alarm jolts the mother from sleep. She grasps at shards of the shattered tapestry of her dream, only to have it dissolve like all the rest.
The mother loved the cereal game as much as the son did, loved hearing that bubbly little kid laugh each morning.
“Not pull my nose! Want cereal!”
“No mama not want new nose want cereal!”
Sometimes it was so funny he couldn’t get the laughs out quickly enough and he’d end up screaming in excitement.
Pulling a scarf over her head, she exits the quiet apartment.
The mother observes pedestrian traffic thru the shifting patterns of raindrops on the city bus window. A cat darts across the street, slipping between parked cars.
“Can I keep him mama? Can I?”
She wants to say no. The last thing they need is a kitten. Another expense, another chore. Torn up furniture. The smell. A litter box. Cat dander everywhere.
Those eyes. His fathers eyes.
“Please mama. He smells like cinnamon“.
In spite of herself, she bends to sniff at the kitty. It does smell like cinnamon.
Her workday is a tumult of customer complaints, urgent emails and massive stacks of reports to file. Lunch is taken at her desk when she can find the time.
The mother drops a sandwich wrapper into the wastebasket and moves to unlock her computer. Reaching for the mouse, her eyes focus on a framed photograph.
It was her favorite picture. Everyone was jumping up and down and hugging one another, victorious in the 400 meter hurdles. His eyes swept the stands for her, finally making eye contact and waving her onto the field . The smart phone had been her birthday present to him, mother and son beaming at the camera as a friend snapped the picture.
The city and the news people all said the policemen thought the cell phone was a gun, that was the reason for shooting him. She didn’t believe that nor did she believe all those other things they said about him, not for a minute. In her heart of hearts, the mother knew the son wasn’t perfect, but she also knew he wasn’t what they were saying he was.
But for perhaps the thousandth time she took a share of blame for his death upon herself. What if she hadn’t bought him that cell phone? Maybe he would still be alive. What if he was scared, the police scared him and he’d tried to call her. If she hadn’t given him that cell phone, maybe they wouldn’t have shot him, or shot him so many times.
Shoulders convulsing, she cries silently as co-workers look on helplessly or look away in embarrassment.
The mother bends to place a small box upon the altar, then kneels to whisper a few words to her son. It is a nightly ritual, the contents of the box and the whispered words a private matter between mother and son. Arising, she makes her way to bed.
She gazes at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. The bed rocks slightly. Blind now, the old cat makes his way slowly across the bed. Locating the woman, he lowers his head and rubs against her cheek. She sniffs his fur. Cinnamon.
The alarm jolts the mother from sleep. She grasps at shards of the shattered tapestry of her dream, only to have it dissolve like all the others.
The mother loved the cereal game as much as the son did, loved hearing that bubbly little kid laugh each morning.
