Something Worthwhile: A Tribute

The summer sun is hot as the mother and daughter traipse down the path behind the library. Mother has books and the little girl a blue popsicle. They walk to the hill overlooking the river and sit on the grass. It’s a library outing, one of the little girl’s favourite things to do. She sits in the sun and listens to her mother read. Her melting popsicle stains her fingers, but the little girl is far away—world’s away—in the land of her mother’s stories.

**

"Do you know what a miracle is?" asks Mother.

The little girl does, but only because she has heard this story before. Still, it is one of her favourites. She cuddles into her mother's side and listens.

"You were my seventh pregnancy," murmurs Mother, and the little girl is not quite so little as to not hear the pain in her mother's voice. "You were the first to make it. You are our miracle baby."

There is more to the story: bedrest and doctor's visits and one doctor in particular who wouldn't give up on Mother; who wouldn't give up on the little girl. He was the one who had said it, that doctor--this baby is a miracle.

The little girl's mind wanders. She thinks about the six before her, six brothers or sisters who hadn't gotten a chance to be born, who were angels before they were alive. Safe in her mother's arms, the little girl feels sorry for them; feels their loss in a way she cannot explain.

The little girl cuddles closer.

**

Together, mother and daughter sit on the couch. Mother has a book about cats, but the book has no words. The little girl cuddles into her, looking at the drawing of the cat perched on a rock deep in a cave, surrounded by water.

“How did he get there?” asks her mother.

The book has no words, but they don’t need them. Pondering it, the little girl makes up a story all her own.

**

They sail leaves through the puddles, down streams created by melting snow. The little girl wants to know where they go; what happens far away where she can’t see. She imagines each leaf is a big ship, setting sail for lands unknown. One thing is absolutely certain: each leaf is on a grand adventure, destined for all the greatness the little girl can dream up.

“Where are they going?” asks her mother, and the little girl tells her all kinds of wild things.

**

“I’m going to tell you a story,” says the little girl.

This book is a pictured dictionary. Stories without words are the little girl’s favourite. She goes to her mother and opens the book wide, pointing at a page with pictures of a grocery store.

“My sister and I are going shopping,” she announces, “and this is what we’re going to buy.”

Her mother has heard this story dozens of times. The little girl is too young for variety. Still, she smiles and asks with much enthusiasm, “Who is going to buy what?”

**

The little girl is afraid to go to sleep. There are monsters in her closet, which she thinks are real. Every night, the monsters make the little girl tell them stories. She has to tell them over and over and in perfect sequence, clearing her mind of all other thoughts, because the monsters will know if she is cheating in her head. Every night, the story is the same: the little girl builds a snowman outside! But the monsters can tell if anything is different, if anything is out of place. The little girl doesn't know what will happen if she makes a mistake, but she knows it will be bad, bad, bad.

There will come a time for the little girl when this impulse is named, when it morphes into something recognizable and she is diagnosed with OCD. For now though, Mother is almost done her nursery rhymes and it is almost time for the little girl's solo story recital, alone in the room with the monsters.

She catches her mother's hand as she moves to stand; Mother pauses, lips pursed.

"One more," the little girl pleads, more than aware of the desperation in her voice.

Mother pauses, but she hears it too. Sighing, she cuddles back with her daughter in bed and restarts the rhyme book.

My mother is a miracle, thinks the little girl.

**

Her mother shows her a whole new world, a great world. She shows her “Anne of Green Gables” and “Rose in Bloom”. She shows her “Little Women”. She listens as her daughter talks about Gilbert and Charlie and Laurie because storybook men are her little girl’s favourite things.

“Poor, poor Charlie,” mourns her daughter, vowing never to read a book without reading the ending first again.

Her mother buys her paper, so the little girl can be like Anne; can be like Jo. Each story starter she keeps, each attempt at writing is tucked away for the future. The little girl sucks it all up like a sponge, and falls asleep dreaming of her own creations.

**

When the girl is not so little, she thinks of years of presents. She thinks of things wrapped up pretty with ribbons and with bows, picked out just for her.

A mother gives her daughter many things. When the girl is not so little, she thinks of her mother and she thinks of worlds, safety, and miracles, all wrapped up in one woman.