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Time with Mom
As every young boy does, I had always thought of her simply as “Mom”. She was the ever-present, often invisible force that kept my small world in orbit. If trousers needed mending, they were mended. If they needed washing, they were washed. If they came home in tatters, stained by bleeding knees, they were taken away and the wounds were healed with stinging iodine and a loving kiss. She was always there. She was the hand I held as I took my first steps, the tear-stained cheek I kissed as I boarded the train for college.
There came a time – I can’t tell you precisely – when I began to see her as more, as a woman, a sexual being. What I do remember is this: we were in the library. It might have been after the required “Saturday Night Bath”. I was in my standard-issue flannel pajamas and we were curled up together on the sofa. There must have been a less-than-interesting program on the flickering, grey screen of our new television because I was concentrating on her breasts: a supple, rolling landscape barely concealed by the chiffon nightgown and peignoir she was wearing. I turned and rested my cheek against them. She responded by slouching down to offer me a more comfortable position. I remember it well: they were firm yet soft, warm and comforting. I tilted my head and felt them move against my face.
Fascination must have eventually overpowered discretion because she swatted me away and made me sit up again. No words were needed, message received. But as I retreated I saw two very noticeable bumps underneath the thin, silky fabric.
…
As my late teen years approached, I was increasingly captivated by her sexuality, realizing that not only was she my mother but also a very beautiful woman. She was tall, long-legged and shapely. I was the envy of my over-sexed adolescent friends. They would often come to the house, feigning interest in me but actually focused on her, hoping for a brief glimpse up her skirt or, the Holy Grail, down her blouse, events about as rare as snow in the Sahara. It didn’t matter all that much – they were just as happy to simply watch her walk by, or bring us cold drinks on a hot day.
I felt protective of her but eventually even I began stealing glances, especially through the double doors of her bedroom as she dressed for the day. She was a stay-at-home mother but made a point of always being properly done up: sometimes slacks (quite controversial at the time) and a stylish top; sometimes a dress, or blouse and skirt – often worn with hosiery and heels. I too was expected to follow the dress code. Housecoats and pajamas were forbidden during visiting hours because “One never knows who might suddenly appear at the door.”
Which reminds me of an argument we had during my rebellious period. As a lazy teenager, sometimes all I wanted to do was sleep in and spend the rest of the day camped out in front of the television. It was seldom allowed.
“Bradley, get off your derriere and do something constructive.”
“Aw Mom, c’mon. Everybody else gets to.”
“Yes, well, you’re not everybody else, are you?”
“No, you always make sure of that!”
“I’ll have none of your cheek, young man.”
“There, see? You did it again!”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep using weird words like that. Why can’t you be like the other moms? People always talk about you, you know, about how you seem to know about everything, about the way you talk, that accent. They say you don’t belong here.”
I knew I’d gone too far. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I can’t help how I was raised, Bradley! I wasn’t born here, I didn’t go to school here. I’m well aware that I don’t fit in. You have no idea how difficult it has been for me — to try to lose my accent, to learn how to use the ‘proper’ words. If you only knew how it feels to be laughed at by other people if I happen to use a word I grew up with! One would think that after all this time…!” She turned and ran out of the room, dabbing her eyes. I jumped up and followed her. She was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, head down.
“I’m sorry Mom, I shouldn’t have said that.”
She looked out the window. “Sweetheart, if you could understand how hard it is sometimes…”
I put a hand on her back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. People just aren’t used to it, that’s all.”
“You’d think after twenty bloody years they would be!”
“Well, maybe you could explain…”
She cut me off: “The only explanation anyone needs is that I wasn’t born here but I’ve done my best to fit in. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
I dropped it — I knew her early life was off-limits. We hugged and I went upstairs to change. It was strang
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32