O.'s the Man

O’s the Man

I stand at my bedroom window. My stomach caged those butterflies inside to remind me that I can still feel…some things. It was hard to stand here without her by my side and even harder for me to try to remember what her hands felt like when they would embrace me. There was no point to my life without my mother, but my therapist said I was making good progress for someone who had just lost their mom a little over a week. I always knew that someday she’d leave me in a time when I would need her most, and yeah, it was pretty bad. The ceiling shook slightly as I heard the bass begin on schedule, nine ten a.m., my favorite time. I don’t think my neighbors would be able to survive if their twelve inch stereo decided to quit the job. Marge and jerry were probably waiting for my poor mother to slowly trudge up those stairs, bang on their metal door, and have a verbal battle with them so they could what, turn the volume down a couple notches? My hands crumpled into fists at the thought. The bass knocked into my ears, and began making my whole body vibrate along to the beat.

Boom.

It almost matched my heart beat, but even then it was too fast. An image of mama sunk into view. Her wrinkled face scrunched up into a raison, and her eyes popped out blood shot and all. A vein was visible on her forehead; in fact, as the image got even clearer many veins became visible in the creases of her face.

Boom.

The thought never crossed me until now. Why hadn’t I trudged up those stairs and fought with those kids? Why didn’t I ever just suggest ‘let’s file a complaint’ and then made breakfast for her? I could hear her voice in my head, trapped to re-say the one thing she'd say every time she'd crack those eggs ‘O. I’m sorry that the neighbors won’t quit their racket, sunny side up or scrambled?’

Boom.

“Oh, ma s-scrambled,” I said aloud, “scrambled.”

Boom.

Today was not going to be like other days. It was time for the new and I would deliver it. Out the bedroom door I went, guiding my troops that should have marched a long time ago. Past the dust, Ma’s living room, and the door to my tiny ‘big boy room’ (mama’s name for it, not mine) I went. I reached for the rusted knob on the paint-chipped door and turned it clockwise.

Boom.

Damn them! My face flushed and my anger bubbled up in me like I was a soda can that had been shaken. Out that door I flew to the stairwell, and my knuckles popped as I clenched then unclenched my hands. She could do it so could I. Josie from next door came to a halt down the hall and smiled at me as if she knew I would finally come to her rescue, but only in the name of my mother, my glasses.

Boom.

Boom…