This I Believe 

I believe in avoiding the little cracks between cement squares. Although it's as little as a schoolyard fairytale, I believe it is the least I can do.

My mother has always been a superstitious person. She is careful with mirrors and avoids the underbellies of ladders. And because I am my mother’s daughter, I have inherited many things from her. I have her eyebrows and her cheek bones and her blatant lack of skill when it comes to lying. However, I am not superstitious the way she is. I don’t care for under-ladder safety and take a liking to little black cats. 

But, because my mother is my mother, I am superstitious for her.

And when we are young we have nothing to give our own mothers. And the best a girl who can still count her age on her fingers can do, is give her love. But ‘I love you’ can be so repetitive it can sound just as small on the tongue as ‘thank you.’

I was at that age when I’ve just started to learn what guilt feels like and how heavy it can be sitting on my palms. I had no way of acquiring money or even yet skill, I was incapable of gifts or homemade dinners. And I grew up the way most children did, watching themselves slowly steal away their mothers. I’ve seen my mother surrender in the kitchen to tired eyes and wanting hands, choosing the pizza man over rotisserie chicken and chopped scallions. Once I caught her asleep and slumped over in her bed next to a pile of half folded laundry and an open laptop, my T-shirt resting in her hands. And I’m not denying that motherhood is a promise, I was just so tired of taking away so much from one person. So I gave my thanks to my mother with careful strides. 

After school, my babysitter would pick me and my brother up and she’d walk us home. As my babysitter would berate my brother for something he’d said, my eyes would stay glued to the ground. Every step I took was carefully plotted out to match the next one. To avoid every crack between each cement square. Because the worst thing a daughter could do is know that she may be the reason her mother breaks her back and still just let it happen. And everyday my little red Converse landed neatly in the center of each big white cement square.

And as I’ve gotten older I’ve stepped over more cracks than I know how to count. I walk with my chin up and my mind on the next thing. 

However, I’ve never lost the fear that maybe I’m not doing enough.

And every now and then when I’m walking down the street, I’ll remember my old habits. I’ll look back down at the ground and repeat in my head, “step on a crack you’ll break your momma’s back, step on a crack you’ll break your momma’s back,” carefully dodging each and every small crack on the cement. And it feels like I’m 6 years old again, and every step I take is thank you, and with every block I’ve asked for forgiveness a hundred times. Because it really is the least I can do.