The Mom Who Sang on Rainy Days
I made a choice to be the person I wanted my children to remember
I was disappearing. I could feel it deep inside of me. Layer upon internal layer. A series of tiny little emotional dents chipping away at my center.
The shedding of my being.
It was a process.
Until one day my snake-like skin had been abandoned.
Human beings continue to grow. If a snake does not discard old layers there will be no advancement. No ability to grow bigger and stronger.
Hence, why a deserted snakeskin appears nearly whole.
As if the slimy creature simply undressed.
Likewise, I had slithered out of myself.
But there was a contradictory cause.
I had stopped growing.
The ones I grew up with witnessed my vanishing. They protested it. Others stayed politely quiet. I yo-yoed between these worlds. The people who tolerated me dangling by a string and the ones who attempted to yank me back to my beginning.
The former voices begging me to leave my marriage and maintain my original appearance. The latter missing my former look but indulging me.
But it was my children who would ultimately bring me to my senses.
I was their rainy day mom.
The mom who belted it out as rain splattered the roof of our car.
Not just one but every rainy day song in existence. The vocals would start with “It’s raining, It’s Pouring,” and make way to “It Never Rains In Southern California” to “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” to “Rainy Days and Sundays Always Get Me Down.”
And more, so many more.
I was the mom who sang in the rain.
Who laughed where some might vent. Who smiled where some might frown.
The mom who had turned into a woman who now vented in place of laughter and frowned in place of smiles.
I had quit myself. And in doing so had quit them.
For these were so much more than melodies.
They were emotional hand me downs. Only my voice could dictate these generational heirlooms. The sentimental Geneology defining our family.
I dug deep into my center.
The vanishing one.
And I found the courage to leave my marriage.
Too much was at stake.
Who would my children remember?
Their rainy day mom? Or the stranger who had replaced her?
A woman who grew more beautifully or one who had slithered out of her original skin?
The other night, a familiar tune rang through the air.
I asked my youngest son, “Do you remember this song?”
“Yes,” he said.
Rain forces a snake out of hiding.
These days that’s all we have in common.
This woman is no longer disappearing she is resurrected.
And if it’s raining.
You can hear her sing.