I was 13 years old when I read J.R.R. Tolkien’s, “Lord of the Rings” for the first time. Tolkien mesmerized a distraught young mind with his writing and I was forever captivated. The impossibility of my past stood in stark contrast and entering the make-believe world of the Shire seemed right. I could pretend that whatever it was I was trying to forget it never really existed or occurred at all. Reading represented peace, escape and freedom from my thoughts, if only temporarily.
I was surrounded by a wall of shame but in the Shire, I scaled those walls.
Previously, I had spent years in the care of social services, and as one foster care home turned into another, I carried both external and internal scars that were grim reminders of the physical pain I endured at the hands of many people. One being, burn marks that stand as mementos of past days. On entering my late *father’s* house, life changed.
Can you imagine?
I could not imagine this good fortune.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I had love.
I had shelter.
I had food.
Seven years of my life were spent in hunger and all before ten years of age. I didn’t have to steal anyone’s lunch at school, or hunt for food at night. I could just eat. I would walk up to the fridge in the dead of night, open its doors and feast. I also cried. I would sit in front of the fridge and cry, illuminated by a little band of light from an open door.
To know hunger is to know real pain.
Fast forward many years later, and I spent an awful lot of time running and attempting to forget memories that I couldn’t stop from playing. What remains a key memory from those times was the steady voice of my father and mother. I could numb my body with drugs and alcohol but their voices always whispered through.
What are you doing? Where are you? We love you.
Today’s sun is gathering momentum promising the return of hot summer days, warmer nights, cool breezes through shuttered windows, and multi-coloured blossoms dotting carefully tended flower beds.
Warm days always remind me of my late mother who loved flowers, and would often say, “If someone comes to your door, you feed them. If you see someone hungry, you know what to do. If you have food, you share it.”
On days where I’m not able to shake awful memories and they threaten to consume this spirit, I’m still thankful for this life. Whatever this life is, and whatever we make it to be, we can still make a difference in someone’s life. All we have to do is offer a hand.
*My uncle, a brother to my biological father.*
Original post: humansofsaskatoon.com
