When my son came to live with us, I knew something about what he had experienced at the hands of his birth family. I knew that once, he had been hit so badly that his ears swelled up as if he had been in a boxing ring. I knew that the hospital also discovered a deep cut on the left side of his head, which I imagined had been caused by …
When my son came to live with us, I knew something about what he had experienced at the hands of his birth family. I knew that once, he had been hit so badly that his ears swelled up as if he had been in a boxing ring. I knew that the hospital also discovered a deep cut on the left side of his head, which I imagined had been caused by a belt buckle, or a heavy ring. He was twenty months old.
The first night he was here, aged four, after I had read him a story, I asked if I could stroke his back. I needed his permission.
It might help you sleep, I said.
My son said yes. I gently put my hand under his pyjama top, which was blue and covered in tiny spaceships. His back felt warm and soft. I traced the nubs of his spine, very carefully.
Draw something, he said.
He knew. He knew what he wanted, what he needed.
I drew a cat.
Talk it, he said, and so I did.
This is the head, I said, as my index finger traced the shapes on his warm skin. This is the body.
I drew stick legs, ears, eyes, whiskers, and a long tail. My fingers on his back. The connection was building, the safety, the love.
More, he said. His voice was becoming drowsy. I drew a house with four windows and smoke curling from a chimney. I drew a tree. I spoke the trunk, the branches. His breathing deepened. He was asleep. My hand kept moving.
I am drawing my heart, I said. I love you.
He’s sixteen now. Stroke on my back, he says sometimes, in the mornings, when he can’t get out of bed for college. Most of all he wants me to draw the cat. The first steps we traced together. Our bonding animal. Our love.
Oh Kerry. Such rituals of care and kindness - and of safety/permission - after the terrible time that preceded it. And written with the same loving kindness. Before I move it to the web site with your name linked to it, I will need to email you with a few editorial questions as I do with any contributions that refer to identifiable others in a way that might present a risk to you as author. Is that okay? It's a good practice run for if you're writing longer lifewriting for publication...
If that is indeed okay, can you send me your email by DM on twitter or instagram?
Hi Tanya...thank you so much for your response...as regards my email, I'm not on Twitter or Instagram, but I think I emailed you on 16th November before I'd worked out how to post on here...so do you have my email from then?
And I've been working hard this weekend to refresh all the pages in the story archive over on my book's website, to still better showcase the work of your and others here. I'd love you to take a look, starting on the new-look landing page...
When my son came to live with us, I knew something about what he had experienced at the hands of his birth family. I knew that once, he had been hit so badly that his ears swelled up as if he had been in a boxing ring. I knew that the hospital also discovered a deep cut on the left side of his head, which I imagined had been caused by a belt buckle, or a heavy ring. He was twenty months old.
The first night he was here, aged four, after I had read him a story, I asked if I could stroke his back. I needed his permission.
It might help you sleep, I said.
My son said yes. I gently put my hand under his pyjama top, which was blue and covered in tiny spaceships. His back felt warm and soft. I traced the nubs of his spine, very carefully.
Draw something, he said.
He knew. He knew what he wanted, what he needed.
I drew a cat.
Talk it, he said, and so I did.
This is the head, I said, as my index finger traced the shapes on his warm skin. This is the body.
I drew stick legs, ears, eyes, whiskers, and a long tail. My fingers on his back. The connection was building, the safety, the love.
More, he said. His voice was becoming drowsy. I drew a house with four windows and smoke curling from a chimney. I drew a tree. I spoke the trunk, the branches. His breathing deepened. He was asleep. My hand kept moving.
I am drawing my heart, I said. I love you.
He’s sixteen now. Stroke on my back, he says sometimes, in the mornings, when he can’t get out of bed for college. Most of all he wants me to draw the cat. The first steps we traced together. Our bonding animal. Our love.
Oh Kerry. Such rituals of care and kindness - and of safety/permission - after the terrible time that preceded it. And written with the same loving kindness. Before I move it to the web site with your name linked to it, I will need to email you with a few editorial questions as I do with any contributions that refer to identifiable others in a way that might present a risk to you as author. Is that okay? It's a good practice run for if you're writing longer lifewriting for publication...
If that is indeed okay, can you send me your email by DM on twitter or instagram?
Txx
Hi Tanya...thank you so much for your response...as regards my email, I'm not on Twitter or Instagram, but I think I emailed you on 16th November before I'd worked out how to post on here...so do you have my email from then?
Thanks again.
Kerry x
Kerry, I've just now added your absolutely compelling piece to the story archive, with the edits as agreed:
https://thecureforsleep.com/april-issue-hands/#kerrywhitley
And I've been working hard this weekend to refresh all the pages in the story archive over on my book's website, to still better showcase the work of your and others here. I'd love you to take a look, starting on the new-look landing page...
https://thecureforsleep.com/beyond-the-book/
So very very glad you are writing for the archive.
Txx
SO powerfully moving. Tears.