Nellie’s Hand
Many of my childhood memories are blocked, but there are
a few that I hold dear to my heart. While most are shaded
with sadness, they also hold precious moments with my
siblings.
My father was abusive and immature and my mother was
mentally ill, so I learned at an early age to take care of
myself and to stay extra quiet when dad was in, " one of his
moods." My days were always tinged with fear, but children
are resilient, and I found ways to be joyful amidst the
turmoil.
I was seven years older then my baby sister. Nellie was an
audacious child, so on the days when we needed to be quiet I
would make up secret games in which we had to sneak around
in silence, or hide under the covers from an imaginary
villain. Little did she know that the real villain, was just
down the hall.
Nellie was my second shadow. She looked to me for
entertainment and sometimes for food. There were days when
mom wouldn’t get out of bed. Nellie would cry from hunger so
I would take her out in the back yard to my walnut stash. I
had a large rock with an indent in the middle. It was
perfect for cracking my black walnuts. I used a smaller rock
to crack open the nuts and one of mothers hair pins to pick
the meat from the shell.
Nellie would squat down beside me and watch wide-eyed as I
proudly displayed my skills, then as I dislodged the meat
from the shell she would hold out her little hand. I watched
her eyes light up, as she munched happily on the golden
nuggets. That would go well for a while, until my stomach
would start grumbling with hunger. That little hand would
reappear, just in time for the next hulled meat.
"Wait Nellie," I would coax, "I need one." She would tuck
her little hand back in her lap, watching with eager eyes as
I quickly ate mine and went back to work on another for
Nellie.
Through the childhood years and into adulthood, that’s the
way our lives went. I was always the big sister, filling
Nellie’s hands with whatever she needed at the time.
Nellie suffers with the same mental illness that my mother
had. The day she was diagnosed, I refused to believe it. I
drug her to every doctor I could find, looking for a
different diagnosis, but I didn’t find one. I was angry with
God. Why would he allow Nellie to be born, only to suffer
all her life with this endless nightmare? It was as if I’d
been diagnosed with the illness myself . . . or maybe worse.
Here was something that I didn’t know how to fix. It broke
my heart. All I could do was be there for her, and try to
protect her the best I knew how.
There came a time in our lives when a family tragedy
rendered me helpless. Our sister Judy was killed in a car
wreck and I found for the first time in my life, I was the
one needing help. I approached Nellie that day like a broken
vessel, wondering how I could help her when I couldn’t help
myself. As she opened the door, a strange thing happened.
She saw the pain in my eyes and she reached out her hand...
that little hand that had always been so needy, was now
offering strength. As I collapsed in her arms, I could feel
her hand patting my back as she spoke. " We’ll get through
this together. We always have." It was in that instant that
I understood clearly for the first time, how important
Nellie was to me. All those years I thought she needed me,
but I never realized how much I needed her. I had needed
someone to care for. I had needed someone to entertain. God
in his infinite wisdom, sees to our needs in ways we often
don’t understand.
I now thank God every day for Nellie’s life, and all the
treasured moments we’ve shared.
Bobby Smith copyright 2003
Indy113@yahoo.com
My husband and I took early retirement, downsized our lives
and moved into a log cabin, nestled in the wooded hills of
Arkansas. I enjoy writing poetry and short stories, many of
which have been featured in E-zines. 2the heart featured my
"True Love" story and two poems, Dancing Holly and On a
Clear Day.