Renee´ was my sister, my youngest, my first baby.
She was born in sunny California, near the beach, amid palm trees, bus exhaust, row apartments, and strip malls. Mother was bartending the waterfront, in dive bars like the White Stallion. Daddy was a wet-behind-the-ears sailorman, seven years her junior. Despite the baggage of having two children, he was lost to the allure of the shining star spitfire, that was our mother.
Renee´arrived to the delight of her older siblings, since we already had a neighbor baby, whom we coveted for our own. Two weeks before Christmas, we were gifted with our very own precious blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub.
For the sibs, the bloom fell off the rose quickly as our "fetch me" list never ended. Fetch me the diaper bag. Where are the diaper pins? Get me the baby's bottle, the rubber pants, my cigarettes, my car keys, the clothes pins... After the fetch me list came the chore list. Play with your sister. Watch your sister. Wash the poop out of the diaper before putting it in the pail. Change your sister. Enter the penalty phase. Thwack! I told you to keep her quiet. Pop! What did you say?! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! We told you to watch her! If she dies, it's all your fault!
I loved you and resented you for stealing my childhood. In my vast 13-years of accumulated wisdom and experience, I vowed to never have children. God must have had a good giggle.
I loved you from afar when I made my escapes at 15, 16, 17, and 18. I was fleeing my life of servitude, not you. You must have felt abandoned but I was loving you and wishing I could raise you. I treasured the times when my husband-to-be and I took you back to our Pacific Beach apartment. And he taught you to play poker by making you bet your barrette.
I can still remember how good it felt to buy you a dress, with my own money from my job, at the upscale clothing boutique, Charlotte Russe. Whether or not you knew it, you were my heart. It's probably why, to this day, I confuse Renee and Jennifer. You're both rooted down deep and wrapped around my heart. You were both my first baby.
I feel blessed to have known you. Those hours knitting with you and Mom were especially poignant for me. When you knit that shawl for me, Wow! Talk about full circle. I keep it hanging across my room, so I always see it. I also have your pink mini-urn on my table. You are both in Hawaii and in my hospice room. Afterlife bonus! You could not do that while living. Just you wait, you could end up bound to me and Gracie, if Rod mixes our cremains together. I bet you never saw that coming...
Thank you for your quiet, non-judgemental ways. Thank you for your tender heart. Remember the rare Nene bird. It's the most beautiful bird in the whole, world because you told me so. I love you, Renee Yvonne Pickett. You are an original old soul.
She was born in sunny California, near the beach, amid palm trees, bus exhaust, row apartments, and strip malls. Mother was bartending the waterfront, in dive bars like the White Stallion. Daddy was a wet-behind-the-ears sailorman, seven years her junior. Despite the baggage of having two children, he was lost to the allure of the shining star spitfire, that was our mother.
Renee´arrived to the delight of her older siblings, since we already had a neighbor baby, whom we coveted for our own. Two weeks before Christmas, we were gifted with our very own precious blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub.
For the sibs, the bloom fell off the rose quickly as our "fetch me" list never ended. Fetch me the diaper bag. Where are the diaper pins? Get me the baby's bottle, the rubber pants, my cigarettes, my car keys, the clothes pins... After the fetch me list came the chore list. Play with your sister. Watch your sister. Wash the poop out of the diaper before putting it in the pail. Change your sister. Enter the penalty phase. Thwack! I told you to keep her quiet. Pop! What did you say?! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! We told you to watch her! If she dies, it's all your fault!
I loved you and resented you for stealing my childhood. In my vast 13-years of accumulated wisdom and experience, I vowed to never have children. God must have had a good giggle.
I loved you from afar when I made my escapes at 15, 16, 17, and 18. I was fleeing my life of servitude, not you. You must have felt abandoned but I was loving you and wishing I could raise you. I treasured the times when my husband-to-be and I took you back to our Pacific Beach apartment. And he taught you to play poker by making you bet your barrette.
I can still remember how good it felt to buy you a dress, with my own money from my job, at the upscale clothing boutique, Charlotte Russe. Whether or not you knew it, you were my heart. It's probably why, to this day, I confuse Renee and Jennifer. You're both rooted down deep and wrapped around my heart. You were both my first baby.
I feel blessed to have known you. Those hours knitting with you and Mom were especially poignant for me. When you knit that shawl for me, Wow! Talk about full circle. I keep it hanging across my room, so I always see it. I also have your pink mini-urn on my table. You are both in Hawaii and in my hospice room. Afterlife bonus! You could not do that while living. Just you wait, you could end up bound to me and Gracie, if Rod mixes our cremains together. I bet you never saw that coming...
Thank you for your quiet, non-judgemental ways. Thank you for your tender heart. Remember the rare Nene bird. It's the most beautiful bird in the whole, world because you told me so. I love you, Renee Yvonne Pickett. You are an original old soul.
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