In the morning my mother and I decided to go on a walk together.
Around three I was finishing up reading an essay, but she was already ready, so she said she’d begin on our usual route, which passed by three elementary schools—private, religious, and public—and added that the idea of out-walking me would motivate her to walk faster.
“Catch me,” she said tying her hot pink shoelaces then darting out the door.
After what could’ve only been five minutes, ten minutes tops, I got ready.
Once outside, since she was a notoriously slow walker, I decided to cut through the field and meet her where she was most likely at—the second school—but when I got there, there was no apparent sign of her, so I walked towards the first school for a bit, but didn’t encounter her unique frame there, so assuming she must’ve been feeling energetic and raced ahead—which was unlikely but possible—I began walking towards the second school.
I started to worry.
When I was younger, I remember, I thought my mother would die if I didn’t pray for her hard enough, that not accompanying her somewhere put her in harms way, since I was her only immunity from the world, her saviour.
But also, when I was younger, at the mall, when we fought over not purchasing something I wanted, I used to run away from her. Those interstices felt like the ultimate escape, browsing with no means to purchase, passing through the world in a daze brought on by a desire for independence.
Once—only once—had she sought the assistance of mall security to get me back into her hands, because she was going to be late for an event, and that was the only time I heard my name resound through the mall; although most of the time—since freedom is an idle state of being for those wired to be predisposed to despair—after I’d exhausted my options—book store, music store, toy store—I’d admit defeat and go find her myself.
Now, as I neared the third school, still harbouring the expectation that at every turn I’d encounter her, I became increasingly incensed, blaming her for going ahead without me, and myself for not putting a pause on my reading.
At the third school, I decided to quit, take the fastest route home, along the pond, and then I—who’d had my head down in defeat—heard my name. Then I, with bated breath, looked up. Then there she was, shaking her closed fists high in the air, the winner of a game of her own design.