The world will see her again!
At first I didn’t see the tiny child on the floor by the window seat. I had taken the first aisle seat available on the rapidly filling flight. The slight young woman in the middle seat gave a faint, but not unfriendly, smile.
As we readied for takeoff on the flight from Philadelphia to Nashville, the mother coaxed her child into her seat and explained that it was time to buckle up. Squirming and protests ensued, but mom persisted, and the curly-headed girl gave in. Her mother murmured, “I hope we don’t bother you.” I assured her that they would not.
I soon gathered that the child’s name was Eleanor. Judging by her well-developed speech, I guessed she was about four years old, though small for her age. During the safety presentation, she divided her attention between the flight attendant and reorganizing the placards in the seat pockets.
Then she quite sensibly said she needed a nap, and her mother, who had shadows under her eyes and a weariness in her voice, heartily agreed! But they would have to wait until the seat belt sign went off. This explanation did not pass muster with Eleanor, who unleashed a barrage of questions:
Why do we have to wait? If it’s not your rule, Mommy, who made the rules? Why can I take the seat belt off then and not now? What does the seat belt do? How long do we sit here? How far to get home? I need to sit on you to sleep. Can I sit on you and wear the seat belt? How much longer?
Mom, with strained patience and a low tone, tried to answer each question, but Eleanor didn’t have time for the answers! Her thoughts raced on to the next topic, so her mother tried distraction next. They discussed cloud shapes, and what clouds are made of, and how home is under the clouds.
Mother and daughter shared a symmetry together, a rhythm in gestures and voice that reflected many hours of happy chatter and play. When at last the plane leveled off at the adequate altitude, Eleanor escaped the seat belt and sat on her mother’s lap. Within minutes, they both drifted off to sleep. I couldn’t help but glance over at them.
The mother looked to be in her early 20’s, with glowing alabaster skin and a slender, petite frame. Her golden and barely auburn curls, clipped up haphazardly on her head, fell against her neck. Eleanor, with her own blond curls, clutched her flannel blankie in her sleep. Her tiny toes peeked out below, sporting sparkly purple nail polish.
Eleanor fit into the curve of her mother’s body perfectly, as if she remembered the womb from which she came. The mother’s arm wrapped gently around her child, laying claim to this young soul who still felt part of her own.
The sight stirred motherhood memories in me, since buried under 35 years of living and tension, changes and growth. Once I held my babies just so, until they elbowed and kicked their way free and flew away. Now their children push away from them, chasing adulthood. I am two generations away from the symbiotic love and pain of holding my little ones in my arms.
Sometimes, in the tableau of life, we come upon a scene so breathtakingly beautiful that it burns away all the dross and debris of humanity, and we can see the best of us. Time takes a deep breath. Then the clouds change shape, and the moment passes.
Eleanor stirred from her nap, and her mother sighed and sat up. As Eleanor made a tent with her blankie, then ate a snack, climbed in and out of her seat, and finally settled into a movie on mom’s phone, we visited. They had travelled from home in Houston to New Jersey to see the grandparents.
Even after reaching Nashville, they had a two hour layover and one more flight to go. We deboarded, and I took a short walk before finding the gate for my connecting flight to Dallas. By chance, I saw Eleanor and her mother at the opposite gate. Eleanor had found a second wind, cavorting around the chairs and giving commands to an imaginary playmate.
Her mom was just about done, slumped in a chair, with her hair almost totally escaping from its clip. Her fatigue palpable, she struggled to stay vigilant and keep a watchful eye on Eleanor. Unaware and innocent, Eleanor knew her mother as an extension of herself, and had no idea of her mother’s struggle.
I walked over to ask if I could pick up some food and bring it to them, but Eleanor had eaten a Lunchable, and mom said she didn’t need anything. The mother in me wanted to make her eat; she looked way too pale and fragile. But I also wanted to respect boundaries, so wished them well on the last leg of their journey home.
Eleanor won’t know or understand until much later in life the thousands of sacrifices and gifts of the heart, from tiny to grand, that her mother laid down before her. The world will know intelligent, spunky Eleanor someday–maybe as a prosecutor in a courtroom, or as CEO of an innovative company, or as a scientist on a relentless search for a cure.
And perhaps we will also see her as a mother, shaping a young character with selfless love and gentle wisdom.
© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved
Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.
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