Chapter 25 - Caroline’s grave
I took Sofia to Caroline’s grave around the second anniversary of the quiet-room incident.
Not for closure.
We went sometimes.
Sofia brought the cloth doll.
Same name.
She sat on the grass.
“Mommy Caroline.”
“Yes.”
“Doll Caroline.”
“Yes.”
“Confusing.”
“Extremely.”
She placed the doll near the headstone.
Then asked:
“Did Mommy know Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“Like?”
“Sometimes.”
“Grandpa lock Mommy?”
“No.”
“Would Mommy let Grandma lock me?”
I smiled despite myself.
“No.”
“How know?”
“Your mother was very good at telling people no.”
“Like loud?”
“Sometimes spectacularly.”
Sofia liked that.
“Would she break chair?”
There.
I laughed.
“Probably not.”
“Daddy did.”
“Yes.”
“Bad.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Children remember accountability when adults repeat it.
Then:
“Mommy save me?”
I touched the grass.
“If she were alive, she would protect you.”
“Daddy protect.”
“Yes.”
“Grandma now?”
“Grandma can help keep you safe too.”
“Teacher.”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“Also you. You can speak.”
She looked satisfied.
Multiple doors.
That was the model.
Before leaving she picked up the doll.
One button eye had loosened.
“Daddy fix.”
“I can sew badly.”
“Grandma sew.”
Eleanor was excellent at sewing.
I asked:
“Do you want Grandma to fix it?”
“Yes.”
We brought Caroline the doll to Eleanor.
My mother repaired the eye.
No one treated it as symbolic.
It was.
Still okay.
May you like
Sometimes repair can be literal and metaphorical at the same time without becoming unbearable.
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