Wednesday, July 25, 2012

My name was Mallory

I witnessed a crime.
I think.
I'm not actually sure because the whole bizarre thing started with me being swept away by men in suits that drove a black Tahoe.  It was very "Criminal Minds."  Anyway, I was transported.  All by myself.  My husband and family had no idea what happened to me or where I went.  My husband must have thought that I left him.  The kids were lost and hurt and very, very angry.  More than I was in touch with their emotion, I was in touch with my own.  I was profoundly lonely and sick with worry.  My logical side knew that I was in some sort of protection.  But the other side of me was aching for the hurt I was causing.  I was dying inside, alone and lonely. 

Then, through some sort of miraculous non-verbal communication, Big launched an "I-will-find-my-mother-because-she-would-never-do-this-to-us" campaign.  She searched.  She figured out all of my passwords and scoured all of my writing and secret files.  She found me. 

I was in a small little town in Montana.  I was shopping in an antique mall, looking for blue mason jars.  I looked up and saw my daugther across the row . . .

It was amazing.   Amazing that she found me.  Amazing that she knew where to look.  Amazing.  That part was amazing.

The dream, however, was so, so, so scary.  The thought of leaving my kids with no mother and no explanation stayed with me as a sick feeling in my gut for the entire next day.

The other thing . . . My name was Mallory.  I love that name. 

Hmmmm.

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