Mom In A Pocket - Overcoming Fear With A Hanky

I started 1st grade at St.
Nicholas Catholic grade school in Struthers, Ohio.
It was difficult because every other kid in the 'hood' was either already attending or starting school in the Poland local public school system.
I didn't understand, but Mom told me that we were Catholic, and that I was going to get a good Catholic-school education.
The kids in Struthers were all strange to me.
I had no friend there.
Not one.
Even the school bus ride was difficult.
When you have no one to sit with .
.
.
and you try and find a seat and sink into the background of cacophony that only this type of ride can offer .
.
.
you feel so raw and helpless! I don't remember how I actually discovered Mom's 'smell' on the hanky she always handed me last thing before I left the house.
Maybe I actually pulled it out of my pants to blow my nose.
Maybe I dobbed a tear - or pulled it out to free up three cents for milk money.
But there it was.
That fragrance! Who knows for sure whether it was Calgon, starch or a mixture of softner and soap she used in the laundry.
But, yep!That hanky, and a quick touch to my face during the day .
.
.
brought her right next to me.
Sometimes I just clutched it inside my pocket.
No need to even bring it out.
It was important to have Mom with me all day.
The nuns were brutal .
.
.
and only added to the torture of 1st Grade at St.
Nick's elementary.
If you didn't drink your ice cold milk down to the last drop - and do it fast (you would think a milk break might actually be a pleasant thing to have in the mornings!), Sister Mary tapped her foot and held the whole class up until you guzzled yours.
She didn't care about your little stomach ache.
Just to know that my hanky was ever at the ready - in case I needed a whiff of her scent to ground me back to somebody who cared about me - it meant everything.
To hell with those nuns! 'Course, I never mentioned my 'prop' to Mom, nor anyone else.
Not for years and years.
As an adult, I finally recalled these details for my Mother, on one of our never-long-enough visits.
I didn't have a kerchief to offer her, as her eyes misted.
She grabbed for a boxed tissue or two .
.
.
and she handed me one.
The edge of my index finger had already gotten the job done for me.
Instinctively though, I brought the Kleenex she handed me to my face .
.
.
and took a quick light breath.
No soap scent.
Just .
.
.
a Mother's touch.
Darry Roseman Happy Mothers' Day, 2006