by Christine Kiehart

As I stood in front of our kitchen window, over the sink, looking at the clear view I now had of the backyard, a wave of emotions swept over me unexpectedly. The basketball hoop was now gone.  She hadn’t prepared me for what was happening, and I felt a little overwhelmed at that moment. I said to her, “This is stupid, what are you making me cry—it’s an old broken-down basketball hoop!” I am such a strong person, but I could not help myself. I blamed her, she was no help at all, rather encouraging me to feel the way I did.  At that moment, I did not want to feel what I was feeling, yet I could not control the tears that insisted on coming … like the raindrops upon her windowpane. It may seem silly to most, but taking down that stupid metal basketball hoop, which I both hated and loved, defined the end of my sons’ childhoods—my tenure as their mommy was over somehow in my mind. The finality of the moment opened the floodgates of so many precious childhood memories that I have forever saved on a physical jump drive for the family to relive, but the kitchen window insisted on flashing them before me in slow motion at that particular moment.

Maybe she was offering me this montage as a chance to reflect on the kind of mom I WAS … not AM today—how cruel of her.  Maybe she was offering a moment only for me—how kind of her. I am not sure—but at that moment, I am both angry and sad at her forceful way of making me feel. “People” say that a certain song, a certain smell like a cigar, a movie, or a holiday will make you think again of a loved one—I guess for me it’s our kitchen window. For some reason the empty space that was now visible through her windowpane seemed to fill with the memories from years past. Memories of the boys and their childhood friends filling the empty space with their laughs, their screams, and their cries. She was almost forcing me to experience the pain of loss. But nothing really was lost, I still have those memories. Something transitioned at that moment within me.  In defiance, looking through our kitchen window now showed me the happy memories of the empty space taken up by the basketball hoop. I took her hand and lead her into my mind sharing with her my fond memories of the countless games of after-dinner HORSE, the endless hours of dribbling and slam dunks, Scrappy stealing the tiny basketball and everyone chasing him down for the ball, Cali running right behind everyone, the fear of the basketball crushing my container plants, and Irene telling us in the morning that Kyle needs to stop shooting after 8 p.m. … made me smile.

Our kitchen window now seemed a little kinder in her presentation of that empty space, she now seemed to lead me to yet another place in time. She was taking me to the happiest moments of their early childhood. We moved to fondly remembering the summers as little babies swimming in the kiddie pool on our newly built back deck with popsicles dripping down their little arms in the summer heat, suntan lotion, and summer hats. The treehouse, up the back, with the wavy yellow sliding board and swing set brought back memories of the boys and their playmates reenacting parts of the Lion King movie. I could clearly see them all playing castle guys and pirates, yielding the swords and dressed in costume. As happy as I was in that single moment of recollection, I began to resent our kitchen window now because I realized we could never physically go back. The sadness returned as grief again and become almost too much to bear. The fact that I could no longer be that mommy to these little boys, bandaging their cuts and bruises, separating them from wrestling fights and brawls, finding Easter eggs hidden in the yard, and being turtles with blue bean bag chairs on their backs.

In our final moments, our kitchen window was trying to tell me, in a kind and gentle way, that my role as their mommy had changed.  She reassured me that I had done my job well; they had a great childhood. Our kitchen window made sure to show me that—to pat me on the back and say, “Well done.” As I turned away from our kitchen window, drying my eyes and feeling now a bit embarrassed, I viewed that empty space as a symbol of accomplishment and of change. The backyard is now quiet and overgrown with plants.  The giant pine tree from elementary school Arbor Day, planted 25 years ago, stands prominent and a bit overbearing in the middle of the yard.  It’s hard to see clearly, but the stone grave markers of our beloved pets lined up along its façade. I can clearly see the boys helping their father dig those graves, heads bent in sadness and brokenhearted, tying to hold in their sobs and tears in order to be the strong young men their father expected them to be—not the little boys they once were. This is the moment that grips my heart the most. 

That’s it, I needed to compose myself and release myself from her embrace. Once I did, I no longer felt the deep sadness or viewed the empty space as negative. I was grateful for her. She gave me a moment, just for me, to reimagine what the empty space could mean … time to fill it with it with new memories—happy or sad—to move from mommy to mom, from boys to men, from death to life—through the watchful eyes of our kitchen window.