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Page 2 of 4 We were laughing and my arm was handing outside the window, just so I could feel the lovely air on my skin. The radio was turned on, the music providing a soothing background to the moment. Suddenly, a man’s stern and somewhat panicked voice interrupted the music and my mom’s mood suddenly changed. A look of horror came over her face and her hands clutched the steering wheel so tight that I thought she was going to break it. I instantly became quiet and withdrawn, shrinking into myself because I thought I had done something wrong. My inner sonar that was so good at picking up emotional signals was in overdrive. The next thing I knew, we had pulled off the busy road onto a quiet side street. My mom turned the car off, put her head on the steering wheel, and just started bawling like a five year old. I leaned over to touch her arm (we sat in the front seat in those days) and became panicked when I couldn’t get her to stop. We sat there for an eternity, a devout Catholic woman whose secure and predictable world had just been shattered by an assassin’s bullet, and a shy, withdrawn five-year-old who wanted to make her mommy feel better. My newfound freedom of a cast-less arm was exchanged for a vague sense of guilt and shame, mixed with a tinge of sadness at how quickly life can change. They say that time is relative. When I was younger, I thought that meant time had real relatives – aunts, uncles, cousins. Now I know that old saying is true – time’s relatives include Aunt Arthritis, Uncle Reading Glasses and Cousin Wrinkle. These relatives are waiting for those who pass through the invisible gate that is marked by the mythical “50” above it. Seen from my childish perspective, any person who had lived 50 years was a-n-c-i-e-n-t. An a-d-u-l-t who lived in on another planet where everyone thought that kids should be seen and not heard. The treasures of my life were never understood by those old enough to automatically say, “I remember when you were THIS high” and pat you on the head. Except for my older brother, Charlie. He is eight years older, and to a child living in a world run by adults, he was practically one of THEM. Charlie might have had one foot in adulthood, but he was ready for an adventure at the drop of a hat. Even though he was busy living his own life, he would always take the time to play with me. I idolized my brother and vowed that if I was ever that old (never even considering the possibility that I ever would be) that I would be just like him when I was around kids.
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