Farmer’s market day brought the unexpected treat of a Yorkshire pudding, which brough me back to the roast beef dinners as a child, when we could never get enough of the Yorkshire pudding. Going to have to make it for myself and hope it is as good as I remember. In all of the hustle and bustle, the jarring note of a small boy, quietly crying “Momee?” I see the little guy, looking around like he had lost her, not quite crying yet, but the worried, scared tone that said he had somehow strayed from safety and did not know what to do next.
And I remembered the times when I had gotten lost, the times that I had hid from people and the times that I had been forgotten, temporarily abandoned, or told to fend for myself if there were things that I wanted to do at school. I was found, I came out of hiding, was remembered and recovered, and spent many nights at bus stations, looking at the other people and wondering why they were here with me? Or was I there with them? Common purpose in the public place, lives intersecting briefly, and then we all move along.
The boy’s mother was right there, I heard her voice behind, the comforting, reassuring voice that mothers have when their children think they are lost, but they have had their eye on them all the time. Watchfully giving him freedom, letting him know that there is somewhere safe to turn to, it’s OK to test the waters. I watched them briefly, heading back to the playground, the fear forgotten in the comfort of belonging.
I belong, strongly to one, less so to others. I have learned the lesson that family is not forever, and things leave, things are lost, things are forgotten. Letting the memories back, opens the gates wider, the feelings stir, the experience of being. I am freeing the memories and the feelings, and allowing them purchase once again. I am beginning to believe.