GRACE AND GRAVITY

by Christine Fleming

the once-favorite childhood picture of myself that had carried me through darker years, reminded me of who I was. In this black-and-white photo, grainy and blurred by movement, I am leaping with both legs over knee-high waves in wind, arms up, mouth wide open. I am certain I was pretending Lake Erie was the ocean I longed to visit, that my skin was dimpled in goosebumps, and my lips were blue. Surely, my mother was standing at the shoreline in a windbreaker, lips pursed in agitated worry. But someone must have been standing in the water; the photo was captured close enough, from a place near to me.

I tried to conjure this child-self back to full sense-memory when my children were small, so I could know them better by remembering myself. But it turned out they were their own selves, each a distinct miracle. I tried not to pace any shorelines, or purse my lips, but my roots grew underneath them like a nest, so they knew where home was. As they aged, I feigned letting go. When I nearly lost my young son to depression—when I witnessed him brush up against the border of death—I grew monstrous tentacles, and fortified every root and vine extending from me. Different from loss, near-loss brings unique trauma, with heightened awareness. I still feel the crumbling precipice underfoot every day.

Before I left for the grocery store that afternoon, I asked my son, Thomas, if he wanted anything. Lying on his bed, belly down with his head on his forearms, he muttered, No, into his comforter. I should have been wiser. What fourteen-yearold doesn’t ask for gummy bears or Cheetos? My body now knows it is possible to leave the house on a Thursday afternoon in February and return to a hollow cave infested with grief. Our entryway buzzed with the sound of an old hound snoring in the distance, except our lively dog greeted me at the door, blocking my path and banging her tail against my bags. The slow, obstructed breath was human, coming from an upstairs bedroom.

What ensued was the stark clarity of purpose. Call 911, keep an airway open, search the room, search the phone, search for reason, search for hope.

To find your child unresponsive is to find them dead. Never mind how the story ends, a mother cannot unlive that singular experience. Clarity is extinguished with the first tear when it finally comes.

In April of that year, seeking new ground and family healing, we headed to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a vacation. In between the Atlantic 

Ocean and the Roanoke Sound, Nags Head cradles the high, wild dunes of Jockey’s Ridge. I looked forward to sharing this special spot I visited as a child. I remember myself there as a happy kid: running down the sand dunes so freely I caught air between strides, felt the wind lift me. I dreamt impossible wishes of returning to hang glide, and wore an orange Kitty Hawk Kites T-shirt from the kite shop until it was skintight and threadbare. Like a gift for my heart, my teenage children were enamored, too, and we visited daily to run, fall, roll, climb, and then stand in reverence as the sun set beyond the sound.

Here on the dunes was a delight so personal it made my heart race. Some joy was to be expected; wind is my favorite element. I smile knowingly at breezes. But on the dunes, I ran, an act unacceptable to my arthritic knees everywhere except here, barefoot in this perfectly supportive warm sand and lofty winds. The conditions felt dreamlike, magical. Every visit that week, I ran to exhaustion, a dire need fulfilled, a rare euphoria. Clinging to a kite one day (…twenty-five to thirty-mile-per-hour winds, you really shouldn’t, the salesgirl said) I felt, I am the kite, Earth holding this thread to my soul. This is when I tell myself: I will not forget you again. But joy takes practice. 

Though healing, the spring winds brought inconsistent surf, too-calm days alternating with troublesome tides, not ideal for my son who wanted to ride the waves. Every day was a disappointing exercise in seeking other surfers, and when we did find them, Thomas’s efforts involved lots of paddling with few waves to catch. The disappointment was all mine; Thomas, on the other hand, returned from each excursion breathless and giddy. I wanted more. I wanted his joy to be perfect. One day late in the trip I dropped Thomas and his father at the base of the pier where a group of other surfers were standing. Contemplating the horizon, they stood lined up in wetsuits like a troupe of modern dancers waiting in the wings. Dubious, I shivered and left to get coffee.

When I return to the beach, the surfers are gone. My husband sits with a book in his hands, resting on an otherwise empty beach. I can barely see Thomas in the ocean, he is so very far out. Flashes of his white and orange board confirm that the single rider in the black wetsuit must indeed be our son. Wild-eyed, I look at my husband. He’s fine, he gestures. He’d abandoned rule number one: no one surfs alone.

I stupidly wave my arms toward the ocean. Given the harsh wind, I know with my whole body how much effort it will be just to get back to shore. My chest is seized by the too-recent memory of near loss, the painfully familiar comprehension that Thomas can’t hear me, that he is too far gone for my reach. 

Standing at the water’s edge, my fear nearly swallows me up. Adrenaline wills my eyes to see ever more clearly, not to miss any moment Thomas might turn toward the shore and see me waving. But he is still, not moving, not paddling, lying on his board. Rocking parallel to the waves, he rests on his forearm, face turned toward the horizon. In a desperate mind trick, I imagine myself in Thomas’s place, will myself to be him in the service of quick wisdom. What does he need? What does he want? What is he feeling in this moment? And further, when I know, what will I do? 

Hope comes: he bends one knee, foot flexed, sole to the sky, as if he is lying in a sunny field of clover, picking at the grass. The gesture is so casual it cracks open anger in me. I am All Mother, furious and relieved all at once. I glance back at my husband who is propped on his side, reading. Sand whips sharply around my ankles, drifts around my husband’s resting form.

I have no words for either of them; I turn my words inward, to myself, this elusive inner child I am trying so desperately to revive. This is both why you are forgotten, and why I need you back: Motherhood is a lonely, earthbound burden. Salty and tumultuous, I flail, rooted in wet sand. My soul seeks lift. I left you behind as extra weight I could not bother to carry, but here all along, you were the wind itself.

I see then, all around my son, the mirror flash of gray, the slow-quick curve of a surfacing dolphin—then another, and more. The broken water surrounding Thomas spouts tiny fountains of spray. My lips part as I draw a breath of awe, and with joyful anticipation stride into the freezing water.

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Christine Fleming writes fiction, memoir, and poetry as a member of The Glen Echo Writers Workshop in Maryland. She has a background in writing and editing, teaching, and exercise science, and holds degrees from Rutgers and Miami Universities. Her writing is informed by her love of music, movement of all kinds, and nature. She has lived in the Rust Belt, southern states, New Jersey, Hawaii, Washington, DC, Israel, and Oman. She currently lives in Bethesda, Maryland, with her husband, three children, one dog, and a yard full of beloved wildlife.