A Mother's Worry

The hazy blue morning seeped between the heavy caps of my curious, young, uncharacteristically focused eyes. I remember this all, the room materializing slowly around me in hues of blue. A dim, calm light cascading smoothly between the shudders of the window that found its home above the IKEA dressers, a vintage t.v., a gift from a relatively recent baby shower, and the bunk-bed my older brother and I made into a play thing-- which for some reason, I was under. Amongst coloring books, Lego pieces, power rangers, very much under. All too quickly the baleful voice of my mother, younger and less seasoned then, boomed what was first a nearing siren that slowly began to cool and solidify into words, "Where are you? Where are you!?" This came off very oddly to me in all of my youthful ignorance, because this had become quite the habit of mine. Sleeping under or over or in between unlikely things in unlikely positions in unrivaled comfort. Oh my poor mother, I can only imagine the amount of years I have single-handedly taken away from her life with such constant worry.To this day I can'y really give a sure reason as to why I did this, or offer insight on my imaginary friends I met once there in my hiding place of choice. Or why I loved it. Maybe long before my conscious mind could cognitively draw up such ploys, I would do so to appease the part of me, of every human, that wants to feel desired, wanted, missed. Maybe in all that panic and waking to my mother's welling eyes I found my self worth, her tears, flowing slowly down her cheeks. That somehow I realized that if I was gone, someone would notice. Maybe I liked that I could inversely slink away, without much effort, and not be found until I decided it would be so. I will never know.