My parents were divorced by the time I was six. My mother was involved with someone soon after, but for a brief time, it was just her, my baby brother, and me. This was the first divorce, so I wasn't quite yet aware of this blissful interlude between men. I didn't realize how peaceful and special these times would be. Sadly, my mother never realized it.
There is one night from this first Interlude that stands out to me. This is one of those things I haven't talked about very much because it was just so strange. I don't know what it means and I really never have. To be honest, it's hard to write about. When you read it, you may not understand why and I get that. But I'm physically reacting to it just thinking about addressing the subject. I don't even know how to explain how I feel. Disquieted is maybe a good word.
It had been storming all night. I was in my bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Every time the thunder would crash, I would wake up again. I kind of liked that though, because the rain was lulling and cool. I felt safe. I always feel safer during storms though, because to me, cloud cover is protection. I'm not sure why that is.
At one point, it wasn't the thunder that woke me. My mom was sitting on the bed with me. Her legs were crossed and she was leaning against the bed frame as she smoked. I could always tell her mood from her smoking. When she was relaxed, she took long slow drags and the cigarette seemed to last forever. When she was nervous, she took short, quick drags. Those cigarettes never lasted very long.
That night, her smoking was slow. To be honest, when I think about all the times my mother was calm (which were not that often), this is most relaxed I'd ever seen her. I asked her if she was okay. She didn't say anything at first so I asked again, thinking maybe she didn't hear me.
"I had a dream that the house burned," she said. "It started burning and I died in the flames. Your brother died in the flames with me. I dreamed the fire spread out in a line and kept burning until it reached the church."
I don't remember what I said after that. I think I might of told her that wouldn't happen or something. I'm not sure.
What I do remember is how calm she was. You have to understand, my mother was NEVER calm. She always fidgeted and slightly shook and gave off this jagged, punctuated, nervous energy. Even when she was drunk, even when she was stoned, even when she was happy, she was this way. Being sedate just wasn't in her nature.
Even her voice sounded calm. Actually, I think one of the reasons this memory is so strong for me is because it didn't even really sound like her voice. It was lower, more steady, and full of a gravity I don't remember her ever having at any other time. The tone of her voice haunts me almost more than what she said because it just felt so out of place.
The house did burn. In fact, it burned not long after that. The fire was contained so it didn't spread the mile or so down to the church. My mother didn't die in the fire, though she did die on that land. Physically, not even all that far from where she was sitting when she told me about the dream.
I'm not even going to pretend to know what this means. I have theories. Some of them I don't have enough faith to believe. Some of the others scare me too much to believe. What I do know is that I'm 38 years old now and I still remember how that night felt. I still remember the chill on my skin from the storm outside and I remember the way the fire from that cigarette would look as it moved from her lips to the ashtray in her hand. I think even if my memory goes on practically everything else, I'll remember that night.
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