A Song From My Childhood | Where As a Child I’d Hide

I was born when my mother was 21. My brother followed a couple days after her 24th birthday. She spent her entire 20s taking care of at least one child, when she was the age that’s turned out to be (apparently) the prime time of my life.

I don’t envy her that.

Nevertheless, she had lots of friends in those days, a remarkably healthy social life for a single mother of two in her mid to late 20s.

Her friends were, as far as I can recall them, good people. David and Marty, who were brothers; my mom’s best friend Rhodi (given name Arnita; I never got the story of where her nickname came from); Jerome, whom I called Jome because I couldn’t pronounce the rest of his name for some reason. Others, too, but those are the ones I remember.

Like I said, good people. They never just tolerated my brother and me, they appeared to enjoy having us around, even though from what I know of children, that can’t possibly have always been the case. My mom trusted them with us, and us with them, and she was right to do so.

Sometimes, though, a little kid just wants his mom.

When I was little, four or five, she threw a party in our house. If I had to guess, I’d say it was on a weekend, but honestly, at that point, such a designation didn’t matter for me. I wasn’t in school yet, so I only remember knowing the different days of the week on a sort of conceptual level. Still, there were people, so let’s assume weekend.

My mom listened to a lot of hair metal and other rock and roll in the ’80s. It shouldn’t be surprising; that was, after all, the music of her people, her own aspect of phonomancy. Consequently, it is my own first aspect, as I wrote in Phonogram vs. the Fans.

Her favorite band was, and still probably is, Guns N’ Roses. They were the first band I picked back up after I left all of my parents’ music behind and struck out to find my own music as magic god. I love them, both historically and currently.

But I’ll still never forget that party.

I was a little kid, and for some reason, I was afraid. My mom was gone, off on some errand, trusting me in the charge of her closest friends. I was safe, but I didn’t feel that way.

The way our living room was set up, there was a little alcove behind the front door when it was open. If you opened it as far as it would go, it would touch the side wall, leaving a little triangle of space that a small person could fit into.

That’s where I went. I didn’t want anyone else. I wasn’t crying, I wasn’t acting afraid, I didn’t ask for my mommy.

Nevertheless, anyone who would have looked behind that door would have found a small, scared little kid who wanted his mommy, and in the meantime was going to sit there by himself, listening to Appetite for Destruction, until she came back.

She did come back. I’m the one who left and never returned.

Funny how that works.