#momma grief death shoelaces

[stephantasmagoria]

Lace Up

November 30, 2019

Lift the tongue.

 Most days you tie your sneakers with perfunctory proficiency. Lift the tongue, pull the laces tight, cross them, pull again, loop two bunny ears, pull tight again, and always double knot. You don’t think about it anymore. During the tail end of your thirtieth year, you lifted the tongue of your boots in preparation for a hike through autumn woods. That’s when the memory of your first lace up revealed itself. It hid for twenty six years within the recesses of your neuropathways, disguised as a purely practical skill. That day, though, function and feeling met in gratitude for the day you learned.

 Pull the laces tight.

You were four years old. Your mom took the morning off of work for a dentist appointment, and she surprised you at preschool with lunch. The two of you sat alone in tiny plastic chairs of a childhood art laboratory. She brought a red cardboard house-shaped happy meal, home to four lumps of breaded chicken, a small white bag made translucent by greasy fries, and a plastic toy wrapped in plastic. Mom probably had a fish filet. You shared sips from a red and yellow paper cup with a plastic lid, the sunroof to neon orange Hi-C flagged by a straw made from, guess what? More plastic.

 Cross the laces.

 As you cross the laces on your right hiking boot, you marvel at how much changed. The mere idea of eating that crap wages a war with your stomach. Within the past decade, both you and mom laced up for environmentalist actions. You avoid plastic as much as possible, and you stay conscious of your carbon footprint. Once you remove the plastic film of disgust from this memory, you perceive the importance of that lunch.

 Pull tight again.

Remember how much you loved spending time with mommy back then? You cherished every moment with her, and dreaded every moment separated from her. You protected her when family members called her crazy, not remembering her ten day stay in a mental institution when you were two. The storms of your adolescence brought cursing matches, during which “crazy” was the most complimentary term you spewed. Many of those dry California valley nights ended with you sliding into laceless skateboard slip-ons. You charged out of the house and into the cars of friends who became totally irrelevant to your life. You convinced yourself they cared about you more than she did. Damn, you were so wrong! At least you recognized it at some point, especially when you recalled your first lace up.

 Loop two bunny ears.

 “Mommy, can you tie my shoes for me before you leave?”

“How about I teach you how to do it yourself?”.

A minor panic attack ensues. During her more anxious moments, mom insisted that hypervigilance of shoelaces was crucial for survival. You might trip and crack your skull on the sidewalk, leading to permanent brain damage or death. The stakes were so high! It was best if adults held that responsibility. Yet she seemed relaxed when she offered to teach you. You both basked in the afterglow of afternoon giggles together. You felt confident in your ability to handle this new responsibility. Circumstances conspired, and you gave it the old college try. As she gave verbal instructions and demonstrated with your left shoe, you followed along with the right. The bunny ears especially excited you, and then a flash of yourself falling and cracking your head on the sidewalk. There would be plenty of bunny ears to come. Focus!

 Pull tight again.

 “You did it!”, she beamed with a smile. Your shocked gaze fell towards your black and white saddle shoes. You did, in fact, do it! You insisted that she stay so you could untie them both and do it all again. You did it again! By yourself! On both feet! Your reward was a big hug and kiss before she said goodbye. Your protected feet ran through the preschool playground, your mind carefree within the sanctuary of your skull.

 Always double-knot.

 Early into your thirty first year, you laced up and rushed to the hospital when your mom received emergency heart surgery. You stood by her side and witnessed her unconscious body sustained by plastic tubes and beeping machines. She died within hours. Now you lace up through fogs of grief. You walk through the world with the intention to honor the legacy of her full humanity. You took it for granted most of your life, yet every day you manage to lace up with your skull fully intact.

 Then the laces come undone. Sometimes by your hand, sometimes by unanticipated forces. So you do it all again.

 And again.

 And again.