Promissory Promises

   I can't stand the way that the word promise is used when it applies to past deeds, as in "I promise you, I never said that,"  or "I promise I didn't have sex with that person."  A promise is a pledge you make for some future action;  "I promise to be true to you all the days of my life." 
   I've made only a few promises in my life, and except for a promise I made to a goat when I was 9 or 10 years old, and my marriage vows if we're counting such things, the rest of the promises were of the default type; my feet were held to the fire when I agreed to  the promises.
   My Aunt Helen had come to live with us when I was  13 years old.  Her mother had died the year before, her brother had finally been free to marry, and the family home did not have room for a wife and a sister.  I walked into our kitchen one day after school to find my mother and Helen having been in deep conversation.  Helen saw me, and continuing with what must have been the topic of their conversation, cried out, to me, "I'm an orphan now.  Don't let them put me in a home.  Please, promise me!"  So I did, I promised her that I would not let them put her in a home.  I had absolutely no idea of how I would do that, or any real conception of what it meant, but she seemed relieved when I said I would not let them put her in a home.  Helen ended up living in my mother's home for 12 years after my mother died.
   My mother had found a lump in her breast when she was about 47 years old.  In those days, that meant hospitalization for several days to a week while they cut out the lump and analyzed it.  It also meant that my mother would be a hospital patient for the very first time in her life, which also meant that she would be contained indoors for the first time in her life.  My mother could not spend a single day without going outside--she had to do her chores as well as get that fresh air.  I remember my father's driving us down to the old Leonard Hospital, where she was a patient on the third floor.  Her room had access to a small balcony, which was where we found her.   She seemed composed, as usual, but she did tell us that the balcony was the only thing that made her stay possible; she couldn't bear it if she'd had to stay inside.  She remained on the balcony at the close of our visit. My father and then my sister said their goodbyes, and as I was doing so, my mother frantically clutched me, saying, "Promise me you'll get me out of here, no matter what happens."  She had to wait there until she received her diagnosis, and a diagnosis of malignancy in those days was associated with death.  Since cancer was only whispered about back then, none of us could have had any idea of what lay in store if bad news was delivered.  She only knew she wanted to be home.  I wanted her home too, so I promised not to leave her there. I had no idea of how to go about that, though I thought my father would drive us home.  The lump was benign, so my mother did get to come home, and I didn't have to do anything about the promise I'd made. 
     The promise to the goat made me feel magically empowered.  The later promises  made me feel old.