We all honored it, this holding of place. In the line for the drinking fountain. The next to jump rope. It was a real friend who kept your spot in line when something urgent came up. Upon return to set place, all you had to say was, “Oh, she was holding it for me,” and the others could only agree, knowing, I suppose, that at some point, they too would require the assistance of the held place.
Perhaps it’s the main reason I did anything. That I dared the oncoming dark in the neighbor’s empty lot, knowing that I had a home just through the bush. That I risked going off to college, knowing that at any given time, any given weekend, my mother was holding my place. That I followed the unconventional path of being an artist, as she held my confidence right beside me. Even moving to another country, I was safe in her heart. As she will be ever in mine.
Maybe it’s all that I’m doing. Returning the favor. When I write of my grandparents. My sweet mother. I will ever hold their place.
