Hawk on a Line

As my son lay in bed next to me the other night, I watched his chest fill with air and fall with each breath, a serene rhythm that contrasted sharply with the chaos I once knew. I listened closely, waiting… watching my precious boy, whose innocence seemed so fragile against the weight of my memories. They say that your childhood traumas become more prevalent at the age of your children when you experienced your own trauma, and that is certainly something I experience daily, as the echoes of my past linger like shadows in the corners of my mind. I grew up in a meth house, a place where laughter was a rare sound and darkness often filled the rooms. There were no warm hands of comfort when you were sick, no warm broth or popsicles waiting to be handed to you like a loving gesture from a caring parent. The nights were filled with the harsh reality of addiction, where the only warmth came from fleeting moments of hope that rarely lasted. From a very young age, I was on my own and I knew it, navigating a world that felt cold and indifferent, a stark contrast to the nurturing environment I yearn to provide for my son. Each breath he takes serves as a reminder of what I never had, motivating me to create a world filled with love and safety for him, ensuring that he feels cherished and protected every day.

I was probably a little older than my son is now, maybe 3rd or 4th grade, a time in my life when innocence was still a shield against the harsh realities around me. My mom was deep in her addiction, consumed by it, and it was normal for my sisters and me not to see her regularly or even daily, leaving a void that felt both unsettling and familiar. I came down with a bug in the middle of summer, the blazing heat intensifying my discomfort. I lay in a second-floor room being baked by the south-facing window, the beams offering a shimmer of hope that someone may find me. They didn’t. For 3 long days I lay there, trapped in a fever dream, baking in my own sweat and vomit, drifting in and out of consciousness. The smell of the room still consumes my senses, a blend of sickness and neglect that haunts my memories. Eventually, I was found; I imagine on the brink of dehydration because all I recall was my oldest sister bursting through the door, her face twisting in panic as she found me in bed, yelling, “OH MY GOD!” The memory fades after that, but I know that she took care of me just as she always did, her nurturing spirit shining through the darkness. We were not her burden to carry, but she carried me and all of us, pouring her love and strength into the cracks of our broken family, a beacon of hope in our chaos.