At the base of every tree there are roots. All trees have them, and all trees are reaching towards the sky, towards sunlight and nourishment. No tree can live without its roots, dug deep into the soil. This is why we, as people, identify so easily with trees, why we experience peace within the dappled shadows of their leaves, tucked into the folds of earth and mulch wrapped around where the trunk ends and the roots begin.
Every person, everywhere, has roots. Mine are here, in Kentucky.
It is always a strange experience when I am around people who knew me as a child. There are pieces of them that want to continue to interact with me on that level because of its familiarity and, in no small part, because dealing with me as an adult is an acknowledgement of time passing and growing old. We all have little reminders of aging in our daily lives, but it is shocking to be confronted with an adult face that you last saw as a child. I am an instant reminder of times past, and all conversation is based on reminisces.
There is always pain with the searching and finding of roots. The exposure of things past requires effort and work. Memories, unthought for many years, resurface. Especially of my father. This is the hardest part of my return here. Everywhere I go I see him and people who knew him. Wherever I am those who knew my dad are reminded of him again. Old sympathies are reflected in older faces, sadness dimming the corners of happy smiles. I have grown accustomed to living without these reminders of him, surrounded by friends who did not know him and know only me.
I am different in Kentucky.
There is happiness here, too. Friendship rekindled that spans the years of child to adult. And I would be a liar if I did not say that there is a measure of satisfaction in knowing how far I have stretched towards the sun since these people last saw me. Yet another benefit of this excavation: a true finding of your growth.
I am glad I'm here, but I'm not here for me. I'm here for my mom.
My mom lives with pain and discomfort. She is diabetic (as was her mother). She has undergone a double masectomy as she fought cancer, and so far, has won. Arthritis betrays her movement and her current disease is stealing her eyesight. With all of that, she lives daily with the loss of her husband. I enumerate this not to make you feel sorry for her. She has enough sorrow to share. I do this so that you can know her, and know why she is who she is. If you know me, you know that my relationship with her has not been the easiest all the time. It is fine now...well, mostly. I spent many years cycling between angry and indifferent. Angry because she does not allow me to grow up in her mind. Indifferent because she lives in her worry and sorrow, and I cannot do that.
I love her, too. I am who I am because of her. She gave me life and sustained me, even when times were very harsh. I remember her struggling to make supper for us as she fought against the terrible side affects of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I remember her attempts to shield us as Dad deteriorated. I remember us being very poor, and she would make my clothes because it was cheaper than buying them at the dollar store.
Our relationship now is very different than it was then.
I sit here next to her as she slips in and out of sleep, the pre-op drugs taking effect. In some ways I am her reliance now. She is nervous about today, as anyone would be. She is tired of not being able to see clearly. She loves to read, and cannot.
Dear God, I hope this surgery helps her.
