I'm A Big Girl Now... And Always Have Been.

 Another pile of clothes. Another bucket of stuffed animals. Another stack of photo albums. Sorting thorugh old “treasures” in my first house in the miniscule town of Hughes, Arkansas has proven to be monotonous and unsurprisingly nostalgic. My mom’s incessant nagging to stay focused on cleaning offered little motivation. My idea of cleaning consisted of sorting through trash, then seeing something from my childhood and getting distracted. Then again, my typical internal procrastination may be the culprit behind my refusal to clean today.

“Hey, Big Girl, are you almost done with your room?” my mom called from the hall. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s getting there!” I fibbed.

“Good. When you get done, come over here. I found something when you were little.”

The gargantuan hills of toys and books told me it might take a smidge more than a couple minutes. I filled a couple more trashbags before Curiosity and Impatience dragged me to my parents’ room.

“What do you want me to see? I asked hanging in the doorway.

“It’s your Clifford the Big Red Dog sweater! You used to wear this all the time…” She answered with a slight chuckle.

“Yeah. I remember the last time I wore it.” I said flatly.

“Oh, Marie. I’m sorry; I completely forgot. That day was such a blur, I barely remember anything about it, and your sweater was the last thing on my mind.” She said apologetically, making her way to the doorway to comfort me.

“It’s fine. I’m going to finish my room.” I shrugged her off. It was fine. And I did clean my room.

The sight of my grandma’s empty bed with my puffy-eyed mom at the edge brought a sense of uneasiness to my four-year-old stomach.

“Mommy? Where’s grandma?"

“She’s gone, Marie.” Mom answered wearily.

“When will she back?”

“She won’t. She’s passed, Big Girl.”

Reality set in, and tears started falling. Tears turned to sobs, the ugly, double-breath, desperate kind that only when happen when you find out something mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly awful. My Clifford sweater quickly transformed into a makeshift tissue. My mom came to the now damp doorway where my feet were glued to. She held me like her life depended on it, and I let her, because for me it did.

Whewwww! Whewwww!

I guess tornado sirens are my alarm clock today.

“Marie! Come down here! You’re going to sleep in between Mommy and Daddy until the storm passes.” my mom whispered urgently as thunder simultaneously boomed.

“What about Samantha?” I slurred sleepily, concerned about my snoozing sister.

“She’s not next to the windows like you are. It’s probably nothing major, but we don’t want you to get scared, Big Girl.”

I think we both knew who the scared one actually was. Contrary to popular belief, not all six-year-old girls are afraid of storms. Unlike my mother, I found them oddly soothing. Something about the steady pounding of the rain and the way the lightening lights up the sky both captivates and intrigues me. While my parents went off to Dreamland, I pondered the reason behind my nickname in my family, “Big Girl.” A physical description to them, a metaphorical description to me. My entire family is choatic and loud, so I felt the need at an early age to be the calm and sensible one. In essence, I had/have to be the “Big Girl” to save us from total destruction.

I’ve never been more jubilant to see a clean house. I feel my mom glance over at me with a smile of relief. We put our arms around each other and admired our masterpiece of categorized boxes and newly swept floors. This time, I glanced, smiling, at my mom. My mom. My safe haven. My source of insanity and sanity. I’m her rock, and she’s mine. That, I know, will never change.