Life is Fragile

From my earliest memories, I knew someone was missing.  On the wall in our oak paneled living room, my mother had hung our baby pictures.  But before I could learn to count, I had figured out that the numbers didn't add up.  The Sesame Street song: "One of these Things is Not Like the Other" is playing through my head right now.  

Three of the pictures held babies with pale, white skin, blue eyes and blonde hair - at least what hair there was on our almost bald little heads.  And I could place each of those pictures with a sister or myself.  My picture was the one where my mom had shaped what  hair I had into a point that stood up proclaiming that I was not bald.  

Then the picture of the baby on her belly with no hair to speak of I knew was of the sister two-and-a-half years younger than me.  Pamela June, named after my dad's sister who died long before I came along.

And of course there was our sweet youngest sister, Rebecca Helen sitting in the picture, her eyes just starting to give clues to her need for glasses and her dress covering her feet that required braces.  My mom often recited the poem "Monday's Child."  While I was proud to be the child born "on the Sabbath Day" Becky was the one born on Wednesday.  "Wednesdays child is full of woe."

Pam and I always seemed to be at odds with each other, but Becky and I rarely if ever fought.  I'm sure the difference in ages had a lot to do with it.  By the time Becky came along, I was in 1st grade and old enough to help care for Becky and love doing so.

The picture that held a young girl that was missing from our family held a place that was sacred for my mother.  While she was always open to answering questions, I sensed that it made her sad to talk about.  

I would gaze at that picture and wish I had the dark hair and olive skin.  My pale skin was prone to freckles and burned so easily.  My blue eyes seemed common and Dalene's dark eyes so deep and beautiful.  And my blonde hair so fine and straight like my father's, Dalene had my mother's dark hair.  

As I grew and the questions came, I asked and my mom answered.  I had my fair share of nightmares growing up.  Scary dreams where  my sister or I died.  My mom would comfort me by telling me that it was just a dream and that it would't happen.  When I asked why, she told me that God didn't give us more than we could handle and that she could not handle losing another child.  That was enough to calm me so I could go back to sleep.  

But that also led to a misunderstanding of how God works.  That lesson came later.

Endnote:  

Monday's Child

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace.

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go.

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for a living.

And the child born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.^[1]