Every family has that one child who tends to do a disappearing act sometimes. In our family, that was me. It wasn’t intentional, but that’s how it turned out, anyway.
I was playing outside by myself one summer day. When Mom went to check on me, I was nowhere to be found — or so she thought.
I was dragging a small doll blanket around with me. I had been playing with my doll — and probably the cats and dog, too.
The bridal wreath bushes around our front porch were in bloom. As a little girl, I loved flowers, and I had been admiring the bridal wreath. I loved them so much.
I laid down on the porch with my doll and doll blanket. I was looking up through the branches — and fell asleep. Mom had apparently been calling me, but I didn’t hear her. Because of the bushes, she couldn’t see me until she came outside and stood in front of the porch — and there I was.
The Asian flu pandemic of 1957 swept through our little town that winter. Mom and I were both sick at the same time, which is why she was in bed the day I disappeared the second time.
We were taking a nap together in her big bed. I woke up before she did. I wasn’t used to her being in bed in the daytime, and I wandered around the house a little. Then I got sleepy, and decided to go back to bed, but I didn’t want to wake her.
The bed was high off the floor, and the pretty pink nubbly carpet under it felt soft and safe, so I crawled under it and went to sleep.
When I woke up, Mom was leaning over looking under the bed at me. She said I scared her. I never meant to. I just liked quiet places.
Through My Eyes, Gently 