THEY SAY THE OPPOSITE OF FEAR IS LOVE — I SAY IT IS TRUST…

I questioned nothing. I took everything for what it was, with absolute acceptance and no regret. Regret…? Resentment? …had no idea those words/feelings even existed. Not in my world, not regarding my mom…

One of the most pressing memories I have from my mom’s unordinary existence is when she decided we had to come back to our country, Venezuela, to pay a visit. (“Pay a visit…? What was she up to…?” I, nowadays ask myself. Back then, wondering was not an option.)

We had barely set foot off the airplane, when all my senses were swirled to the beach. I found myself walking on sand, eating a soft, sweet, well-cooked plantain, overloaded with melted cheese and sprinkled with cinnamon. Straight from its foil paper wrap. Ahhhh…. one of my favorite things to delight myself with! I had been given a real welcoming treat.

Next thing I remember, was being in a hot bus, headed to baba’s*. Baba… my dear, wrinkled, caring baba. The one to always ask me if there was anything special I would like to eat, every time I went over (a lot!). “What would you like, this time, Ariadnushka?” — she always asked with a warm smile in her eyes, eager to please me, happy to make me smile. My answer always being the same: “Piroshki!!!”**, and we both laughed at our simple, yet unbreakable routine. Sometimes, she would mix some honey, sugar, and nuts in a pan, so as to make a candy dessert, with a strong warning of the dangers of doing that. Never was I going to play with hot pans anyway! Only baba could do that. My dear baba… whom I was about to see again!!!

But when…?

Countless hours, different buses later and we still hadn’t arrived. Restlessness and hunger were beginning to bother. Poking at my patience, tugging at my silence. I finally asked my mom when were we going to arrive, what were we doing getting on and off buses, over and over again, without arriving anywhere. Her response was completely irrelevant. “Soon”, she said, with no further explanation, no other significant reaction. After all, mine was not a request, not a criticism, much less a complaint! It was a question coming from a place of tiredness, and from an empty stomach. The flavor of cinnamon, melted cheese, and the sweetness of that warm plantain, were long gone. All of a sudden, she asked the bus driver to let us down, and holding my hand, she led me to her University Campus, where she had studied psychology. Long, fast strides that were tough to catch up with, only accentuated the fact that we were not at baba’s. “But this is not where baba lives’”, I said. No response. Why would there be? It clearly was not where baba lived, and she clearly knew what she was doing. No need for me to understand more than the obvious: ‘No, this is not where baba lives. You go where I go.” …wherever that was…

After walking through endless hallways, crossing huge semi-empty parking lots, passing by closed doors, stumbling across some students, a strong pull at my hand snapped me out of my puzzlement. I had been firmly dragged towards the bushes, landing sideways on loose, moist soil. My hair was covered with earth and leaves, my eyes looking questioningly at my mom, my clothes dirty. My concerns were diminished with a sharp “SH!!”

I laid there, barely allowing myself to breathe, trying to silence my pounding heart, waiting for the next move. The only explanation she gave me was that it was dangerous for her to be seen. They were after her. (Countless questions!! “Dangerous? They?? Why didn’t we go straight to baba’s, then??? Why the detour? Why the risk? How were we going to be able to escape such danger?” …none of which ever escaped my mouth…)

Then, it dawned upon me. “We” were waiting for night to sink in, to protect us. “We” were going to sneak out when we would not be seen. “We” were relying on darkness, on emptiness, on solitude.

I remember no more.

I do not remember how we got out of there. I do not remember ever receiving an explanation as to what we did that day. All I remember is trusting my mom’s decisions, even if doing so conveyed fear. I don’t even remember if we made it to baba’s. Though I have a faint feeling we actually did. …or was it only the hope of having a pleasant memory to hold on to…?

*Grandmother, in Russian

**Typical Russian meat or cabbage-stuffed bun

    Ariadna Rios Varemkow

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    Mother of five - writer - holistic coach - people say life is what it is. I would add ‘and what we make of it’. lifeandfive@wordpress.com