Hold On

About shadows, survival, and the physics of being a mother.

ILLUSTRATION BY PABLO DELCAN

I lifted Río out of his car seat and slung him onto my hip. I hold onto things tightly, so I don’t lose them, so we don’t sink into darkness.

Things in this world can be very heavy. I used to put myself down before I had him; before I had someone who needed me strong. I’m extra strong now. I show him the lightness of it all. I lie about how light he is. After all, who am I if I can’t carry him? He’s three years old, still under 30 pounds– still in the ‘ask a doctor’ section of a Tylenol dosing cup. He’s never experienced real pain– nothing 5ml couldn’t cure. Not yet. I grabbed our bag and shut the door to the Trooper with my other hip.

“Mama?” He said. He knew I was scared.

It was the type of night that convinced me we’d run to the edge of the world, alone except for a little pink plastic dinosaur keychain that hung off the bag zipper. Birch trees reflected the full moon’s silver light; they hovered like white ghosts. Río’s black curls brushed my nose as I walked. They smelled sweet like rancid juice. His eyes were tired, swirled gray, the color of used Play-Doh. His red rain boots, a size too big, clung to his dangling feet. I took a step and adjusted his weight on my hip.

“Hold on,” I said.

I know all too well how good it is to feel weightless and held, especially in the dark. I thought I’d seen it all until I saw him. Now, he shows me the world as it could be; the awesome howl created by blowing across the top of a glass bottle; the “cuteness” of a dead bird; how friendly a pile of earthworms in your palm can be.

After a few more steps, a floodlight sensed us. Splash. Let there be light. I hate floodlights—eager to make fugitives of us. I wish I could say I wasn’t scared of the dark. I wish I could tell the truth. But I’m an adult. I lie, especially to my son. I tell him nothing can hurt him.

Under the floodlight a single blue chunk of broken glass sparkled, still sharp, between the gravel stones. I let him down my leg. He took my hand and walked. I taught him how to walk, how to fall, how to land on his feet when he’s let down, including by me. I taught him not to be scared of the dark.

Sometimes back home, he’d run into the fields at night. When there was no moon, it was like a thick paint, and I’d lose him. I’d stay put, waiting for him to boomerang back. I was scared that if I ran after him, neither of us would ever find the other again. We have already lost enough to the dark.

As we walked toward the door, Río stopped and looked up at the sky. He pointed past the floodlight to the full moon and said, “I live there.” He’d said this many times before.

“You live on the moon?” I asked in my inquisitive mom voice.

The man on the moon watched him. They looked at each other like old acquaintances.

“Well,” I said, “it must be beautiful.” Another lie.

The moon circles Earth like a rubbernecking driver staring at a starry accident. Our long other-worldly shadows stretched out behind us on the white gravel. They caught Río by surprise and he crawled back up into my arms. Heavy.

“It’s okay. It’s just our shadows.” He wasn’t convinced. “Es tu sombra. Di hola.”

He waved. It waved back. I wished I could leave it there, pinned to the gravel. But when we crossed the threshold, our shadows followed, slipping inside us. I felt his body swell with blood and future, with magic creatures he had not met yet.

From inside, I could lock things out. I believed this. I dropped our bag and set Río on his feet. The floodlight died. The wild sealed itself between us and the moon. His face held mine as the shadow took him, crater by crater. I shut the door. Wherever my son once lived, wherever he thinks he’ll go, he is here now. And I am his mother.

There is more gravity on Earth than he knows.
Things here are heavy. I will carry him for as long as I can.

And then I won’t.

der.