#juniper writes

“Shh, Eric, it’s alright.” She brought her pale hand onto his lively ones, his fingers twitching with unrest as they stilled. “It’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”

“But, but Dad said-“ “Don’t you mind what your dad said.” Her pale eyes met his, a determination in them causing Eric to pause.

“You aren’t you’re brothers, Erie. You’re Eric; my sweet, little boy. Remember that for your momma, ok?”

He nodded, wiping away heavy tears.

“Now, show me what your daddy was so mad about.”

He tentatively pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket, stitches criss-crossing clumsily. “I…I was workin’ on…sewin’…like you, Ma. It…it helps…helps me feel…be-tter.”

She tenderly grabbed the fabric and glanced over the clumsy threads. “You did a great job, Erie! Look at this here,” she pointed to a place where a tear had been sewn shut. “This certainly isn’t comin’ apart anytime soon! You did good!”

Eric smiled and sniffled. “I..I did?” “Yes, my beautiful boy!” She kissed his head, causing the boy to giggle.

“Now, why don’t you an’ your momma sit and do some sewing together. How’s that sound?” Eric beamed, nodding furiously as he ran to grab her sewing bag.

“Mom? Why can’t we…we have…good fab-ric?” He ducked his head as he muttered the question, focusing on threading the tiny needle in his hands.

The woman sighed, shaking her head. “Your dad just doesn’t make quite enough for us to have nice things, Erie. And with sixteen strong boys in this house,” she ruffled his hair, bringing a nervous laugh bubbling up out of him. “there’s just not enough left for things like that.” “Oh.”

They worked in silence, darning the socks that the family needed sewn up. She frowned, contemplating for a moment, before she set down her work.

“Eric, do you want nice things?”

Eric froze, a deer in the headlights. “I..I mean no! I…Dad does a lot! We..if we…if we can’t have…have stuff…I don’t….I-“

His mother shushed him, bringing him close. “Shh, it’s ok to want nice things. Your momma wishes she could have new dresses, sometimes.”

Eric’s eyes widened, glancing up at his mom in shock. “You…you wan’ nice things?” “Why sure, but we just can’t have them right now.”

She leaned close to his ear. “But I’ve got a secret nice thing hidden in the bottom of my sewing bag. Take a peek.”

Eric practically dove for the aforementioned bag, hands shaking with excitement. He gasped as he felt something soft and warm.

He pulled his hands out to hold a soft dandelion-colored square, the fabric soothing to his small, calloused fingers. He could not stop himself from pulling it closer to himself, cradling it to his cheek and running it along his face. “It’s a real nice thing, Mama.”

She nodded and smiled, “It sure is, Erie. And now it’s your nice thing.”

He gasped, almost dropping the fabric. “It’s…but it’s…it’s your nice thing! I can’t…” She shook her head and gave him an almost stern look. “Now Eric. It’s my nice thing. So I get to decide what happens to it. So I’m deciding to give it to you. Ok?”

He nodded, falling onto her with a wide grin. “Thank you, Mama!” She embraced him back, laughing softly. “Your welcome, my sweet boy.”

She took a job as a bus driver to help with the bills, as much as Derick hated it. There just was not enough coming in to support the family.

“Mama? Why do you have to drive so late?” She was donning her uniform for the night shift, adjusting her hat in the mirror.

“Why, my strong boys need to eat! And someone has to watch over the house during the day, so I drive people around at night.”

“Yeah…b, but why night?” “I keep the people safe at night. I make sure they get to where they need to go without getting hurt.” She paused, taking in his questioning gaze.

“You know your daddy? How he sometimes has too much juice and needs help? I help people like that get to places safely.”

Eric was silent, fiddling with his yellow square. He wove the fabric through his fingers – up, down, up, down, up. Back again. Down, up, down, up, down. And again. Up, down, up, down, up.

She watched him fidget for a moment. “Erie, I’ll be fine. Now, how’s your sewing coming along?”

He pulled the fabric through his fingers one last time before holding it up. “I…I’m workin’ on somethin’. I wanna p-put the names of…special things I…like….on here…on my special thing!”

She took the bright square with a smile, reading the sloppily sewn words with gentle eyes. ‘Squirrels, birds, puppies’, and other words decorated the fabric, most of them animals.

“You’re doing so well, Erie! At this rate, you’ll be better than your Mama!” He giggled. “Nah, y-you’ll always be the best, Mom!”

She handed the fabric back to him, kissing his forehead before she grabbed the keys off the table.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Erie. I love you!”

“I love you too, Mama! I’ll see you…tomorrow!”

He didn’t see her the next day.

Alone in the bedroom he shared with his brothers, Eric rocked in the closet. The tears wouldn’t stop, they wouldn’t stop, why wouldn’t they stop? He wanted them to stop. Where was his Mama?

He pulled out the yellow fabric, running it along his face and smearing the salt around.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t have let her go. He knew something was gonna happen! Now his Mama was gone, and it was his fault! He didn’t deserve her nice thing!

He flung the fabric away from himself, throwing his hands into his hair and pulling. He rocked faster as the sobs grew louder, tears falling more freely now as he pounded his head with his fists.

It was his fault! His fault! His fault! His fault! His! Fault!

He continued to rock and sob until he had nothing left. Until he sank, spent, into a ball on the floor.

Eric woke up sometime later, dim light filtering through the cracks in the door frame. He sat up and forced himself to look at the ironically cheerful fabric square. It felt soft in his hands. Familiar and comforting.

He rubbed his face with the fabric, pretending it was his mother’s skirt as fresh tears threatened to spill.

But the embroidered words felt wrong. They weren’t his favorite things anymore. They weren’t things that he wanted anymore.

He pulled a pocketknife from a coat pocket hanging above, determined. He carefully placed the blade beneath the offending threads.

He didn’t want squirrels. Cut.

He didn’t want birds. Cut.

He didn’t want a puppy. Cut.

He wanted his mom. Not things, he wanted her.

After the threads were pulled, he pulled the fabric back to his cheek, like a magnet finding its place on the refrigerator. The smooth, unselfish fabric now felt right. It felt good.

It felt like Mom.

But it still wasn’t quite right.

The ridging from the embroidery, while intrusive, had felt right against his skin. It had reminded him of things that he loved. It had helped remind him of happiness when the days got too dark. But those things didn’t belong now. They weren’t his favorite nice things anymore.

But he still needed something on the fabric.

He pulled a needle and thread from his coat pocket, gifts from his mother just a few weeks prior.

He needed something. Not a thing, per se, but there was something missing.

He paused.

He needed her.

With quaking, careful hands, he embroidered the three letter word into the center of the square.

Once he had finished his work, he pulled the fabric to his cheek.

Yes. That’s what he needed. Tears continued to fall, and would fall for years afterwards, but he still had her. She was still with him.

She was her special thing, now.