The Mockingbird’s Cry

Their dinner was no longer hot. The boy stared at the three plates and his mother’s empty chair. He and his father were sitting in the dining room — a part of the house where the central heat didn’t reach. The little boy felt cold. Very cold. As he sat there, trying not to shiver, he looked at this father. The old man was twirling his food with his fork and not eating. He looked beaten down and tired. But the little boy really didn’t know what normal was anymore, particularly when it came to his father’s looks. He was gone most of the time these days for reasons the little boy wouldn’t understand for decades.

“Pass the salt,” the boy asked. His father handed him the salt and pepper shaker without a word. The boy noticed his giant, scarred hands were shaking too.

“YOU’RE A SON OF A BITCH. THAT’S RIGHT. YOU ARE!”

The boy winced. His mother had come into the room. The bitter smell of alcohol flowed from her words, wafting into room and joining the fight.

The father just sat, not saying a word. He just took it as his wife berated him loudly in front of their son. The battles had broken him down. Defeat had crushed his will to fight back.

The son leapt to his feet and tried to get in between his parents. He grabbed his mother to hug her as she shoved him away. These fights frightened him deeply. He felt like it was his job to calm his mother’s rage. It wasn’t of course. His job was to be a little boy. But if he wasn’t trying to stop her explosions, he was hiding her cigarettes or her wine bottles. He walked on eggshells daily, not knowing if she would explode. Normally, when you feel you are under attack, you go into fight-or-flight mode. The little boy had the choice of neither. He couldn’t run. Nor could he fight back. He just took the pain. Years later, it would wreck his self-esteem and leave his body and soul broken. A child who doesn’t know better will blame him or herself. The little boy thought everything that was happening that evening was his fault.

Such is life living with a narcissist.

His mother continued her profanity laced rant. Then he noticed his father quietly get up out of his chair, walk out the door and get into his car. The little boy ran to the window and watched as his father raced away. His whole world was crumbling around him. And now, he was alone now with her. She scared him.

“What are you looking at?!?” she sneered. “Your father is a coward. You know that right?”

He turned quickly and looked back out the window with tears in his eyes. On the windowsill, he saw a mockingbird.  It just looked at him, not making a sound.

Forty years later, the son sat at the graveside with his siblings. His mother’s coffin sat before them, covered with flowers that would soon be lowered into the ground with her. The previous years had been brutal. Their father had died.Then their mother struggled with her own illness. Many secrets had come out, explaining much of why their mother had struggled like she had. Hurt people hurt people after all and she was as broken of a person as there was. And like a drowning person, she tried to drag down everyone who tried to help her — if they didn’t help her in the way she thought was fit.  It took all the siblings strength to care for her as the abuse rained down. The mother had done her best to publicly vilify the children after they refused to do things that would have been detrimental to her and their father. Lawsuits were threatened and nasty emails were sent by the flying monkeys her mother had befriended at the end. But they stuck by her as they struggled with her abuse. She had been lucky. If she had had any other children, she would have died broke in an institution.

The cobalt blue sky blanketed the flat, dusty cemetery. The bright plastic flowers stuck out from the parched Mississippi August landscape. A hot wind blew, like Satan himself was voicing his disapproval. Water poured down their faces, but it was sweat not tears.

The minister stepped up in front of the coffin and began her sermon. It was a average textbook service until the very end. Then the minister started lecturing the children about how they had treated their mother. The man looked at the minister in disbelief. He felt the hate swelling in his throat. How dare she? This wasn’t a “Forgiveness is the only way you will heal” speech. This was, “You were mean to your mother and you should forgive her for her behavior.”  Anger continued to swell as the minister’s words continued to jab at their very souls. How dare she?!? How could a person of the Lord not understand?

Then it happened. First it was one mockingbird, then two. Soon a dozen or more began join together as their cries reverberated through the cemetery. Soon no one could hear the minister’s words. The cacophony of  mockingbird songs continued until she stopped — then their voices ceased. Healing silence blanketed the funeral tent. The children knew forgiveness would have to come eventually. But not in the form of a lecture from someone who didn’t understand the damage that had been caused.

As the man looked at his mother’s coffin again, a mockingbird landed on it. It looked at him and nodded.

God knew the pain the children had suffered. And He knew the pain they’d struggle with for years to come. But on that hot Mississippi day, He sent them relief in the form of a mockingbird’s cry.