Meditation - Re Visiting Memories
by Life Positive
Mitch albom’s for one more day is a poignant, heart-felt memoir of a son‘s relationship with his mother
Times My Mother Stood Up for Me:
I am five years old. We are walking to Fanelli’s market. A neighbour in a bathrobe and pink curlers opens her screen door and calls to my mother. As they talk, I wander to the backyard of the house next door. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a German Shepherd lunges at me. Awowwow! It is tethered to a clothesline. Awowwow! It rises on its hind legs, straining the leash. Awowwowow! I whirl and run. I am screaming. My mother dashes to me. “What?” she hollers, grabbing my elbows. “What is it?”
She exhales. “A dog? Where? Around there?”
I nod, crying.
She marches me around the house. There is the dog. It howls again. Awowoowowow! I jump back. But my mother yanks me forward. And she barks. She barks. She makes the best barking sound I have ever heard a human being make. The dog falls into a whimpering crouch. My mother turns.
“You have to show them who’s boss, Charley,” she says.
Times I did Not Stand Up for My Mother
I am six years old. It is Halloween. The school is having its annual Halloween parade. All the kids will march a few blocks through the neighbourhood. “Just buy him a costume,” my father says. “They have ‘em at the five-and-dime.” But no, my mother decides, since this is my first parade she will make me a costume: the mummy, my favorite scary character.
She cuts up white rags and old towels and wraps them around me, holding them in place with safety pins. Then she layers the rags with toilet paper and tape. It takes a long time, but when she is finished, I look in the mirror. I am a mummy...
She drives me to school. We start our parade. The more I walk, the looser the rags get. Then, about two blocks out, it begins to rain. Next thing I know, the toilet paper is dissolving. The rags drop. Soon they fall to my ankles, wrists, and neck and you can see my undershirt and pajama bottoms…
“Look at Charley!” the other kids squeal...When we reach the schoolyard, where the parents are waiting with cameras, I am a wet, sagging mess of rags and toilet paper fragments. I see my mother first. As she spots me, she raises her hand to her mouth. I burst into tears.
“You ruined my life!” I yell.
To my Charley on his wedding day –
…Here is what you are going to find out about marriage: you have to work at it together. And you have to love three things. You have to love:
Your children (When you have some! Hint! Hint!).
What I mean by the last one is, there may be times that you fight, and sometimes you and Catherine won’t even like each other. But those are the times you have to love your marriage. It’s like a third party. Look at your wedding photos. Look at any memories you’ve made. And if you believe in those memories, they will pull you back together.
I’m very proud of you today, Charley. I am putting this in your tuxedo pocket because I know how you lose things.
I love you every day!
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