Devonne Brown

Holiday Head Webs

I declare my independence from the tyranny of head webs, stuff that wakes me…dumb stuff. There have been a bazillion books written about incidents and accidents that leave deep wounds that still bleed.

I was supposed to watch my brother at my sister’s cheerleader practice. He was two, I was ten, she was eight. You went home. I don’t know what happened, but he wandered off and found one of those ten foot slides on the playground. His climb up must have been slower than his fall from the top. They picked him up off of the ground beside the slide. He was holding his arm close when they brought him to me. He said he saw stars through his tears. He’d broken his collarbone. 

There were no phones around, and I still cannot voice how I felt. 

I got in trouble over that incident, big time. I didn’t get grounded or beat. Dad gave me a good “talking to,” a lecture the size of Canada, a guilt trip to last a lifetime. Words like “shirked responsibility” and “no permanent damage to the baby” piled layer after layer of shame upon me. How could I have left him alone? I didn’t think the lecture would ever end. It hasn’t.

There were a handful of formative lectures over the years that were just as inspiring. They have been fodder for anxiety, depression, and medication for most of my life. At 63, I can say that I am able to see the webs before I’m head deep in them, again.