I would have been 8 or 9 I think, for some reason the memory time-frame overlaps with my vivid recollection of Erin Burkholder, a childhood friend of mine that was murdered.
In a musty smelling laundromat. My mother folding laundry on the end of a puke-orange yellowing table. The hum of dryers and ka-chunk, ka-chunk of washing machines. A tinkle as the back door swings open, the form of a man pushing through with a child in his arms. "If a woman comes in I'm not here." He says as he sets a little boy on the edge of the table.
I remember the smell of dryer sheets, the look of lazy confusion in the little boys' big eyes. The way his little hand wrapped around the mans jacket. The goose bumps on my neck and the icy shock of adrenaline.
He spoke with my mother, words I can't recall in the crumpled, faded memory. But the feeling I conjured back was one of a lesson...he was teaching someone a lesson by taking that little boy...someone had left him in a car and the man wanted them to be scared.
Many years after that, my two boys were abducted by their estranged father. Fresh from jail and angry that the courts had placed a restraining order on him, their father went to the person who was taking care of them and disappeared. I was at work when I got the call, and by the time I knew what was happening, he had caught a ferry to the mainland and my boys were gone.
Six weeks later, my boys came home to me.
Six weeks of panic, police, RCMP and cross provincial battles.
Six weeks of sleepless nights, innumerable tears, guilt, anger, anxiety attacks, frustration and fear.
This was a story I lived through, yet try to not think of. That time was one of the most defining and guilt-heavy periods of my life...
Because why did I let it happen?
What could I have done differently?
What happened to my babies when they were gone?
What did it say about my ability to parent and protect?
The things that were said about me, my mothering capabilities and my character were harsh, crippling, horrific. Things you wouldn't even think to say about someone you abhor. Yet I took it all, quietly, internally, and once my babies came home, I made my earliest escape possible, with the help of family from 3 provinces away.
Did my boy's father teach me a lesson...?
Yes, I suppose he really did.
Now and then something happens in the current time to peel open wounds such as these. Memories almost forgotten, or buried, get pulled to the surface so I can examine my perceptions, my fears. I get lost in how to deal with it, and think myself irrational for having an overwhelming reaction. I think I am not alone in this. However, due to the way I function, I don't want my personal crap overflowing on a situation that has nothing to do with me.
So this is me sharing a piece of my story. This is me dealing without oozing emotion and allowing myself to wallow in history.
Not all stories end with "and then they came home." So I'm thankful for those that do.
Perhaps the moral of all this is lost ones create ripples in our lives. Whether it is a momentary panic that ends well, a prolonged story or a permanent loss...
Whether it is our own, or our loved ones', or even just a knowing of someone else's' loss...
Lost Ones bring a lesson to us.
I can't say I'm grateful for this, not yet any way...
But I can say I am aware.
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