The Cry That Never Was

When I was young, everything seemed possible. I would have it all. I would have a family and a career. And I would change the world. But now? My house is silent, except for the pitter of four legged creatures.

Instead of slamming doors and happy voices, I have barks and meows. This wasn’t what I dreamed of when I was ten, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-five, but it’s where the years have brought me.

The door to that room remains closed. I don’t have to enter it to know what’s there. I should move, should leave. I should throw out everything in the room, but I can’t bear to.

I pause outside the door, reaching out and feeling the smooth metal of the handle. I should…

My hand turns of its own volition and the door creaks open. I need to oil the hinges, but why bother? I haven’t opened this door in years. I have no idea when I’ll enter again after this moment.

The room hasn’t changed. It’s dusty, musty, the colors muted. But it remains the same.

The crib sits against the wall to my right, teddy bear propped up in the corner. The sheet was white once, but now it's yellowed in the sun that creeps around the gauzy curtains at the window. No child ever laid in the confines of its warm wood, but it sits waiting.

A rocking chair of matching wood sits next to it, a perfectly folded blanket resting over the back. Long ago, I’d sat there, dreaming of the nights I’d rock my child to sleep. But those dreams are gone now.

The rest of the room bears silent witness to my dead dreams. This room never had the chance to grow, to change with its occupant. Instead it became a memorial to what should have been, but never was.

Books that had never had their spines cracked. Never been deemed a favorite that needed to be read every night at bedtime until their owner decided they were too grown for them. I couldn’t bear to pass them on to friends, to siblings for their own children to enjoy. My child would never touch them so neither would anyone else.

I had no idea why I tortured myself. Why I didn’t call to donate these things to someone who needed them more. Instead I allowed this room to stand as a testament to what I couldn’t have.

I stood in the middle of the room, my eyes closed, as I imagined. A little girl with curly blonde hair who had grown and left. Not because she never was, but because she lived her own life. A piping voice calling me “Mama. Mom. Ma.” that changed and grew as she got older. Tears and laughter rang from these walls, instead of the silence that I had become accustomed to. This room had known love, heartbreak, anger, all the emotions that came with a growing child. But it hadn’t.

It hadn’t known any of that.

Just like my arms didn’t know what it felt like to rock my child to sleep. I’d rocked my siblings’ children, cooing lullabies until they drifted off, but had never known the weight of my own.

Stealing my nerves, I made the decision. I would do it tomorrow. I would call, empty the room. Donate the lot. Maybe the empty room would inspire me then. I could have a guest room, a craft room, something cheerful and happy. The door could remain open instead of ignored.

I turned on my heel, striding for the open door.

Tomorrow.

I would make the change tomorrow.