I remember many nights when the chill of winter froze my small, frail bones. Just like the way my heart would race when I saw the soft glow of light creep through the cracks of my bedroom door. My tiny hands would grip the blanket in a tight, clammy grasp, pulling the comforter up under my chin. I would close my eyes and pretend I was asleep. All just to hear my mothers voice.
My mother worked in the hospital for over 35 years. She worked in the labs and was a dutiful worker – arguably the best at her job. Unless you asked me, then, in that case, she was the best – bar none. Working in a hospital meant that she was subject to night shifts. Midnight to 7am. Sometimes, I didn’t mind when she worked these tedious shifts. She would always come home with a warm hug and a small bag of Tim Hortons. When she worked the night shift, I could almost always count on a blueberry or fruit explosion muffin to brighten my morning.
Some mornings, usually in the birth of spring, she was always so happy in the mornings. All conversations were honest and naked. Free and humble. Those were the mornings I would wake up at 6:30 so I could greet her at the door, without the rush of getting ready. It gave me more time to talk to her.
As I grew older I started to question it. Why did she always have to take the night shift on New Year’s Eve?
I don’t know if I’ll ever find out why she really worked the night shift. It was probably just for the double time payment. Maybe they had a secret party in the labs that I never knew about. Maybe it was her escape: a night to be left alone with her thoughts.
For these reasons, its that I try not to dwell on the inconspicuous actions my parents did when I was younger. Though I may have wondered then, I do not now. I don’t wish to do anything to taint the golden memory of joy of hearing my mom rustle the keys in the door, or the soft thu-thump of heavy winter boots kicking off snow. Or when she’d sneak in and hug me with her still frozen hands.
It is only as we grow older that our curiosity almost subsides. The quench for the unknown is almost quelled by the desire to protect our innocence – but only once we’ve reached a point where it is almost too far gone to be saved, so it’s the littlest things we want to protect.
I felt abandoned as a child, with every New Years Eve almost alone, a room half full of sleeping relatives. I felt like she left me. But now, looking back, I know she didn’t leave me. I also know that the way I felt was not her intent. But looking back, that loneliness I felt will forever be outweighed by the unblemished love of my mother after the night shift.
The Infamous Generation 