So we’re in our kitchen making bacon and cinnamon pancakes for breakfast. We cheat a little, not wanting that complete boxed mix, but instead she uses Bisquik flour. She adds, an egg, and 1/2 cup of milk per instructions, then adds grated cinnamon and 2 drops of honey and 1/4 teaspoon of vanilla extract. Hot fluffy pancakes. Crispy bacon.
I’m thinking on how I’ve been in the recesses of her head all our life. I understand this because there have been dark, scary places we’ve gone. Been forced to go. Take the hand of a child, gently in yours, and if not taught better, all her young life, she will follow. So I didn’t fight the closed gate, even now with this freedom, there are things that go deeper, than my depths.
We only have scraps of memories of the night mom was killed. We were there, but like our incidences of sexual abuse, the memories are snatches.
So now, I am the keeper of the key that unlocks the gate, and though I’m not as frightened as she is, I am wary. I peek and peer inside this darkness. I reach out and feel first, least I stumble onto a memory neither she, nor I, am ready for.