One, Two
Addicts count days. My 9 year old daughter counts sheep. My 10 year old son counts to two. Then he starts over. One, two he says. One, two. Sometimes he will get all the way up to seven. For a while he could count to ten, but then the seizures happened and I don’t know what fritzed inside his brain. I picture it getting red and orange and now he counts to two again. On good days he knows that one means one and two means one and one more. On most days, he is just counting.
I count too. My son Jesús gets medication in the morning. He gets medication in the evening. Two different types of medication, two times a day. As the mother of a child with disabilities I cannot forget the medication. If I do, he will most certainly have a seizure. I cannot forget the medication. I absolutely cannot forget. As a mother. Also, and equally, as a human, I have forgotten his medication. I forget several times a year. I tell you this right away so that you trust me. Also so that you know me. I don’t want you to think that I am a mother who never forgets the medication. I forgot his medication because I was making peanut butter toast one time. One night I forgot it because I was bringing down the trashcan to the end of our driveway. So here we are. I am a human who forgets. I am also a mother. Mothers forget. If you are a mother, or a human, or a person who forgets things — even when you are not supposed to — Welcome.
Don’t worry. His seizures happened before I forgot his medication. I was told they happened at birth, and then they just continued. Though none of us were there to know. No one, except this tiny baby with black hair. I’m assuming he had black hair, though maybe not. Doctors have told us that from what they could gather, our son probably had a seizure at birth and lost a significant amount of oxygen. That is why now he is 10 years old but also 3 years old. That is why he speaks like a 2 year old. That is why he understands like a 4 year old. That is why his muscles are all out of sync. A dentist told me that he was probably much older than we thought and so I pictured him being born a toddler. But again, none of us were there, in a town, or a city, or a village in Honduras, a lifetime away. I am so sorry I was not there, I have whispered to him when he has curled against me, damp brow and flushed face after an afternoon of playing in the sun. I have kissed his moon eyes and smelt his neck. I am sorry it took so long. I have told him. But he has already forgiven me. We did not meet this baby for many years, maybe five years after he was born, maybe six years. Maybe seven.
I cannot emphasize enough how much we do not know; this is important — this not knowing. I used to shrug my shoulders at it, like you are now. But don’t. Carry this truth with you for a while like a stone in your palm. Sometimes I slide my hand into my pocket to hold it and wonder. The not knowing about the beginning matters here. It matters like a rock matters. It exists in the foundational way mountains are formed. We carry the silent years with us. It is where he begins.
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Being close enough to Lake Superior, most stones we find to carry here are the gemstone agates. All my children have agates. From their uncle who collects them, from the quarry, from the driveway, from the field and from the river. They wear them around their necks wrapped with silver wire or twine, and shoot the smaller ones as marbles. I read once that experts can trace an agate back to within 12 miles of where it was found. When I read that I put my book down in amazement. Could this be true? I thought about that for a long time and tried to research it to confirm and tell you now. Unfortunately Google kept changing my search.
How to track the serial number on a gun was first suggested through online Outdoor magazine. No. Agates, I insisted. Tell me about agates. How to recognize a rough agate was another suggestion. I can adapt, and so I offer this instead — Steps to Recognizing a True Agate:
Step 1: To know for sure if what you are holding is a gem and not a bit of asphalt coughed up by the sewer, you have to open it. With another rock, or a hammer. Or if you are feeling fancy, you can bring it to a jeweler and ask them to slice it open with a diamond saw so that you will have smooth edges. Either way, you must open it.
Step 2: You must look for translucence in the stone. (Use a flashlight if necessary.) Agates allow light to shine through.
Step 3: Inspect for banding. There will be consistent circular bands. A story line.
Steps 4, 5, 6, 7: Measure, check the surface, feel. An agate will feel heavier than it looks. Feel into the cracks even, an agate will be dense.
Step 8: Study the stone and look for fractures. Agates are prone to fractures.
If you have done all of this, you will know if it is a gemstone.
My five children run, mostly run, scramble and lunge over the rocky north shore with the wild and the wind. They are both searching and found. A treasure in the field. Our whole lives are like these rocks. Open it. Shine the light, look for crystals, find the banding. Feel. Most importantly, don’t worry about being fancy and having smooth edges. Especially do not worry if you find fractures. Experts say if you have an agate these fractures will most likely be in the form of waves. I say — isn’t everything.
You should know that Google legend holds that the wearer of an agate is found to be both agreeable and persuasive. This is not true for my agate-wearing children born in the waters of Minnesota. But for my darkest haired son — the one with the stone past — he is both. So, the Google legend proves almost true. Which, when considering the reliability of both Google and legends, isn’t half bad.
I kiss my son on both cheeks. One, two I say and he laughs a brilliant laugh. It is not the unknown or the knowing that is hard, but the remembering. Every day, remembering that it is simple. We find what we are looking for.