My earliest recollections are hazy, like television static slowly resolving into an image. Brown shag carpet underfoot. I’m in the living room, bathed in the flickering light of a color TV. My mother is engrossed in the final moments of Hill Street Blues. A cigarette glows in her hand, smoke curling upwards, a fragrant ribbon disappearing towards the ceiling. As the credits roll on her police drama, a vibrant orange toy car, emblazoned with the controversial Confederate flag, launches itself skyward on the screen during a commercial break. Just as it reaches the apex of its jump, my mother decisively switches off the television, and stubs out her cigarette, ending the scene. My father is absent from this picture, though the unspoken reality of their not-yet-divorced status hangs heavy in the air.
No, that’s not quite right. Another scene flickers into focus. I’m smaller, nestled in the back seat of our family car. My father is at the wheel, driving my mother to her job. Seattle surrounds us; the rain is a constant companion. Yes, I can see it now, the gentle drumming of rain. Tiny droplets cling to the car windows, distorting the outside world. My father’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, a warm smile gracing his lips. A sign for Pizza Hut flashes by. “No, not tonight,” is the familiar refrain. We drop my mother off at her workplace. I imagine a quick kiss exchanged before she boards the bus, disappearing into the city’s rhythm.
Wait, that’s not it either. We are driving, yes, but the atmosphere is different. I’m still in the back seat. My mother is smoking, the car filled with the scent. Catching my gaze, she exhales delicate smoke rings that dance towards the windshield, ephemeral sculptures in the confined space. Seattle’s gray skies weep rain. Definitely raining. I hum a tune, my small fingers tracing the paths of water droplets on the window, attempting to connect them, to create patterns, to make sense of the fluid world. My father glances at my mother, a shared smile passing between them as she tells him what I’m singing. “Hill Street Blues,” she says softly.
No, Seattle is a misdirection. The memory shifts again. We are in Great Falls, Montana. Tension crackles in the air. My mother and father are locked in a hushed but fierce battle in their bedroom. The sharp tearing of cellophane breaks the silence as my mother opens a fresh pack of cigarettes. The contents spill out, a cascade of white and red against the bedspread. My father’s voice is soft, pleading, a stark contrast to the storm brewing. Then, my mother’s scream erupts, piercing and raw, so loud it physically hurts my small chest. She storms out, and the front door slams shut, a definitive punctuation mark. My father gathers me into his arms, a refuge. We retreat to his bed, the television becoming our silent companion. The screen’s glow casts shifting prisms of light across our faces, a kaleidoscope of emotions unseen and unspoken.
My father and I are alone now. This can’t be the first memory, but it’s etched with sharp clarity. The television is silent, dark. We kneel on the soft blue carpet beside his bed, a ritual of prayer for a mother. Not the mother who has vanished from our lives, fading like smoke, but a new figure, someone who will care for my father, fill the gaping void. I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating with all my might as he petitions God for the woman he works with at my grandparents’ department store, a stranger to me. The familiar scent of my father’s deodorant envelops me, the comforting warmth of his body a solid presence. His stubbled cheek brushes against mine. I close my eyes tighter, willing a new reality into being. My mother is gone, a ghost in the periphery of my memory. I conjure the image of a cigarette, smoke rings expanding, ascending, climbing higher and higher. Higher, I think, than I’ll ever be able to reach. I strain to recall her face, the contours of her smile, the sound of her voice. I press my small hands together, a desperate plea. I’m consumed by the fear that if I lose focus, even for a moment, I’ll forget her completely.
