Robin Writes: What would you take? – April 3, 2025
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By Robin Garrison Leach
When a springtime storm rumbles toward the house at night, the first thing I do is look for my shoes. I am suddenly eight years old; my dad’s voice punches through the darkness. His shadow is outlined by the lightning that flashes through the window above my bed.
“Get your shoes on,” he’d say. “We have to be ready.”
Moving in time to the staccato thunder, my brothers and I stumbled into the living room and huddled together on the couch. Mom was already there, dressed as she had been when she’d said goodnight. Plus, shoes.
While we sat, Dad patrolled the house. Room by room—window to window—he peered out at the darkness with gauging eyes.
Mom gathered us all closer. She pulled the old crocheted throw from the back of the couch and wrapped its fuzzy tickle around our shapes.
I leaned my head against Mom’s soft chest and after a minute or two it was time for the game to begin.
“So.” she said, as she patted her always-warm hands against her ample lap. “What if you had to choose?” Her eyes pinged against each of us in turn. If you had to leave the house in a hurry—and you could only save one thing. WHAT WOULD YOU TAKE?”
My brain whirred. I’d heard the question many times; the game was older than my life. But my answer changed from storm to storm, year to year—just as I had.
“You wouldn’t have long…” Mom glanced around the group calmly. “You’d have just a few seconds to decide. And there would be no way to go back.”
One by one, my brothers and I wrestled our minds to agonizing conclusions. In those moments we looked through the dark uncertainties of life and found within our hearts the one thing that mattered.
The one of us who was most afraid always chose the Bible. It pleased Mom to hear that answer; that child would be drawn closer to her warm body for extra security.
The rest of us whispered out our decisions in turn. Mom met each answer with unwavering approval; she nodded her understanding as we climbed through our imaginary open windows with the possession we held most dear.
We had all we needed—all that mattered. Everything else could burn up or be blown away in whatever disaster we imagined would occur.
When we had each taken our turn at the ‘What Would You Take’ game, we sat quietly, listening to our thoughts. After a while, the storm would begin to die down. Dad’s sentry duty slowed to a calm perusal of clearing skies.
We’d be going back to bed soon, lying shoeless and safe.
But the game wasn’t over yet. We hadn’t heard Mom’s choice. She always went last, sending the wispy fringes of the storm away with words that gave us pleasant dreams.
“What would you take, Mom?”
We knew the answer. It hadn’t changed since storms began. And we knew it never would.
We mouthed the words along with her as she whispered them just loudly enough for our hearts to hear:
“You, you sillies. I’d take you.”
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
