Slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, I could hardly breathe as the weight of my body pushed against my belly. Every bounce heaving against my diaphragm, sharp with pain, I tried to wiggle free.
It was the winter ‘81 or ’82 and I was four or five years old.
Just moments before, I was standing wide-eyed between two thundering forces. The cold linoleum floor, my personal play area, filled with wooden blocks and primary colors.
As I was yanked one way and lifted off the ground, I saw my mom fall backwards in the opposite direction, mouth open and eyes-wide. I had been sucked into the fury of the tornado and with so much force I could only reach out as we separated fast. I couldn’t reach her and she couldn’t reach me. The smack of flesh and the thud of her body scattered letters and colors across the floor like dozens of square pin balls bouncing in all directions.
I’m paralyzed, hovering near the ceiling as I watch my mother like a wounded queen screaming out to me in a crumpled heap on the floor. That look of pain, then fear, then rage flipping across her face like a kaleidoscope. I can’t make sense of the primal sounds she is making.
Held tight and moving fast, I watch my mom get smaller and further away as I bounce hard on his shoulder. In a flash we move from the bedroom, through the living room and out the front door. Down the few steps I grunt as his shoulder pushes out the little air I still have left in my lungs.
I hear keys jangling as the door slams shut and then the muted cries of my mom deep inside. “Juuuussstiiinnnnnn, nooooooo… Justin! Come back with my son!”
Then I hear the familiar sound of the heavy metal door squeaking open. He pulls me back fast and whips me around in front of him where I see his eyes-wide as they lock with mine for a moment just before he scuttles me into the back seat. The door slams hard as I feel the cold seat on my back and legs.
Through the window I see his shadow sprint around the car and land in the front seat. The car rocks as the door crashes shut. The engine cranks easily and we immediately back away. All I can hear is the gravel rock and the thundering of my heart in my ears. His hands fight against the wheel chasing the red glow of the taillights as we hurry backward. I look past him through the windshield.
For the first time, I feel the tears falling down my face as I see mom come out of the front door with that single, small, porch light on. So small in the distance, my mom seems to be sinking into the ground.
So far away. So confused. I didn’t even get to pick a side.
(posted 4/17/2016)
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