"We're almost there and no where near it; all that matters is we're going."
I have terrible recall, but for some reason I can always recite this quote from Gilmore Girls, my favorite show in the whole world. It's been kind of a mantra to me, a person who can't ever really sit still in her own head.
I woke up one day a few months back and decided that I was going to return to school. I didn't want to waste another moment feeling like a fraud as a self-proclaimed writer; or feeling directionless with a few unfinished novels under my belt. I need direction, motivation, criticism, a challenge in my life.
I love school. No, I LOVE school. Not so much the homework (but, as you can probably guess, I love writing papers!) or the mandatory attendance or the two intermediate french classes I have to take--no, I love the meeting of the minds that takes place in a very liberal college. I love the smell of the City as you walk out of General Classroom Building; the feeling of anticipation on the first day of school; syllabi's, I LOVE syllabi's'!!!
Okay, so a lot of this love is directed towards Georgia State specifically. Regardless, I'm excited to go back.
This decision has come with mixed reviews.
Anthony is always supportive, no matter what I decide to do. My parents on the other hand have been.......quiet.
Which translates into what I perceive to be as, "You're moving backwards, getting another bachelors degree. Have another baby!!"
There once was a time when their silence would have kept me up at night, caused me to rethink my decision. But honestly, there is nothing on this earth that would make me rethink my decision.
I am a decisive person. Once my mind is made, I can't bring myself to turn back. And I know a lot of people can't understand this, but I honestly feel that my decisiveness stems from a connection with the universe. When I am absolutely sure about a decision in my life, a sense of peace befalls me, the earth stops moving and when I close my eyes, my future lays before me, a perfectly lit path. I just know. And that is enough for me. I don't have to know where I'm going, I just know that I have to go.
I am on the cusp of a great adventure; the great unknown of my life. I am at the turning point of before and after. And I'm chomping at the bit to find out what changes lay in wait for me. A world of new possibility will blossom; and unlike before, when I was obtaining not one, but two degrees, I'm hungry to grab every opportunity presented to me.
So, I don't know if I'm going to end up with waaay more student loans than I intended just to teach at a university. I'm not going into this degree hoping to become a famous novelist. What I feel with certainty in my soul is that where ever this little endeavor takes me, I will find myself fulfilled.
So, as I held that acceptance letter in my hand, my mantra came to the forefront of my mind:
We're almost there and nowhere near it; all that matters is we're going.
I feel, for the first time in a long time, that everything in my life is starting to make sense.
I'm excited and I'm serene.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
Life and Death and Pets.
2010 hasn’t been easy on me in terms of my pets. In April, I lost my beloved Boo Radley (beloved is an understatement, believe me) to a failing heart. And Friday night, we lost our cat, Tsunami Man. What makes his death heartbreakingly tragic is that he was killed by our dog, Bailey.
It all started with a tree that fell in our back yard, that broke open our fence and cluttered our back porch. We can’t leave the dogs out like we normally do, we have to ‘walk’ them. And when Anthony was out ‘walking’ the dogs, Tsunami Man bumbled onto the back porch.
Because of the tree, Tsunami Man was trapped, but at least Bailey was mercifully lethal. Anthony said it was over quick, within seconds.
I’ve found myself uncharacteristically darkened by this. Even more so because my dog took the life of our own in a violent, freak occurrence. I can’t really blame Bailey, who came to me with a natural aversion to the feline members of our pack. There is no one to blame.
It got me thinking yesterday about the purpose of animals in our lives. We love animals like they are our own, but, really, in a different way. Sure, I always loved Boo like my child, but really, I didn’t. I mourned him, I miss him, but it’s not the same as if I lost Oliver. Obviously not.
So maybe animals are here to prepare us for love and loss. Maybe not prepare us (because, really, can anything prepare us for the death of a loved one?), but acquaint us. We learn to love and we learn to lose our pets, who win our love and trust mush easier than humans, die much sooner than we do and who we as a people love with an intensity some cultures can’t comprehend.
I’ve never lost a loved one and I often think what I would do, or who I would become if I were to lose my husband, my parents, my best friend, my Mema. I’m uncomfortable with being unhappy, so much so that I tend to ‘forget’ the bad things so I can move on with my life.
When I lost Boo Radley, I was so uncomfortable in my own skin, the memory of his glazed, open eyes staring back at me, gone but not forgotten. Losing Boo Radley was my first taste of death. I’m 25 years old and fortunate because of it. I am unmarred from loss, my life yet divided between the before and the after. I am the person I will never be again once death has touched my life.
I miss you, Boo. And Tsunami, I’m sorry. You were the best of friends in life, and I take comfort in knowing you are together. If animals are here to teach us about life, I can only assume you’ll be waiting for us, to lead us on to the next part of our journey.
It all started with a tree that fell in our back yard, that broke open our fence and cluttered our back porch. We can’t leave the dogs out like we normally do, we have to ‘walk’ them. And when Anthony was out ‘walking’ the dogs, Tsunami Man bumbled onto the back porch.
Because of the tree, Tsunami Man was trapped, but at least Bailey was mercifully lethal. Anthony said it was over quick, within seconds.
I’ve found myself uncharacteristically darkened by this. Even more so because my dog took the life of our own in a violent, freak occurrence. I can’t really blame Bailey, who came to me with a natural aversion to the feline members of our pack. There is no one to blame.
It got me thinking yesterday about the purpose of animals in our lives. We love animals like they are our own, but, really, in a different way. Sure, I always loved Boo like my child, but really, I didn’t. I mourned him, I miss him, but it’s not the same as if I lost Oliver. Obviously not.
So maybe animals are here to prepare us for love and loss. Maybe not prepare us (because, really, can anything prepare us for the death of a loved one?), but acquaint us. We learn to love and we learn to lose our pets, who win our love and trust mush easier than humans, die much sooner than we do and who we as a people love with an intensity some cultures can’t comprehend.
I’ve never lost a loved one and I often think what I would do, or who I would become if I were to lose my husband, my parents, my best friend, my Mema. I’m uncomfortable with being unhappy, so much so that I tend to ‘forget’ the bad things so I can move on with my life.
When I lost Boo Radley, I was so uncomfortable in my own skin, the memory of his glazed, open eyes staring back at me, gone but not forgotten. Losing Boo Radley was my first taste of death. I’m 25 years old and fortunate because of it. I am unmarred from loss, my life yet divided between the before and the after. I am the person I will never be again once death has touched my life.
I miss you, Boo. And Tsunami, I’m sorry. You were the best of friends in life, and I take comfort in knowing you are together. If animals are here to teach us about life, I can only assume you’ll be waiting for us, to lead us on to the next part of our journey.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Goodnight, Elizabeth
One.
John.
It wasn’t the silence of the room, the absence of her breathing, but the coolness of the sheets as his hand found his way to her side of the bed, that alerted him, woke him from a troubled sleep. Thunder clapped outside, drowning out the pounding of his heart, lightning flashed, illuminating the fear in his eyes as his reflection appeared in the mirror adjacent to his bed.
The dread was omnipresent, lying dormant in his gut until a moment such as this. She was gone. It was never a surprise, but a realization, like a tumor you could see, but never acknowledged.
It had been coming for a long time. The upswing had lasted too long. Her gaze had become increasingly distant, her laugh a little too false. Three months of recovering from the last time, three months to re-establish their relationship before she shattered it again with the jack-hammer of her condition.
Bi-polar. Alcoholic. These words had been used in the past to describe her, but they meant nothing to John. It was just Elizabeth. She’d always been that way, before rock bottom, before small padded rooms and long nights of worrying and diagnosis and medications. They’d called it a disease, but John wasn’t convinced. A disease was something you could recover from, but Elizabeth would never change.
Still, he loved her all the same.
The phone interrupted the heavy silence, sounding louder than a tornado in the dark, scaring John as if it were. The dread cemented him to the bed. Was this the night, the moment? He wondered. Was this the night she died? Who would be on the other line? The police? Was she in jail again or in the morgue?
He moved slowly with lead feet. He found the phone beside her un-rumpled pillow. She left it there for him, right next to his keys.
“Hello?” John swallowed hard, bracing himself for the worse.
“It’s been a bad night, John, but she’s alright.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” John asked, the anger taking him by surprise. “You know how she gets, Bear, you know the signs as well as I do.”
“I wasn’t working tonight, Maggie was.”
“Maggie knows better than you.”
“Maggie said she was fine when she came in. She only wanted to talk,” Bear said defensively. His tone softened. “You know how Elizabeth is. She blindsides us. One minute she’s sipping coffee, watching the news at the bar and the next she’s ramming a barstool through my jukebox.”
John grimaced. “How much do I owe you this time?”
Bear laughed once. “Maggie stopped her before she could do any major damage.” Glass broke in the background and Bear suddenly became muffled as his hand covered the receiver. John heard a feral scream in the background. He threw on his coat, his laces untied as he shuffled quickly through the house.
“You better come quick,” Bear said suddenly, “She’s worse than I ever seen her.”
John.
It wasn’t the silence of the room, the absence of her breathing, but the coolness of the sheets as his hand found his way to her side of the bed, that alerted him, woke him from a troubled sleep. Thunder clapped outside, drowning out the pounding of his heart, lightning flashed, illuminating the fear in his eyes as his reflection appeared in the mirror adjacent to his bed.
The dread was omnipresent, lying dormant in his gut until a moment such as this. She was gone. It was never a surprise, but a realization, like a tumor you could see, but never acknowledged.
It had been coming for a long time. The upswing had lasted too long. Her gaze had become increasingly distant, her laugh a little too false. Three months of recovering from the last time, three months to re-establish their relationship before she shattered it again with the jack-hammer of her condition.
Bi-polar. Alcoholic. These words had been used in the past to describe her, but they meant nothing to John. It was just Elizabeth. She’d always been that way, before rock bottom, before small padded rooms and long nights of worrying and diagnosis and medications. They’d called it a disease, but John wasn’t convinced. A disease was something you could recover from, but Elizabeth would never change.
Still, he loved her all the same.
The phone interrupted the heavy silence, sounding louder than a tornado in the dark, scaring John as if it were. The dread cemented him to the bed. Was this the night, the moment? He wondered. Was this the night she died? Who would be on the other line? The police? Was she in jail again or in the morgue?
He moved slowly with lead feet. He found the phone beside her un-rumpled pillow. She left it there for him, right next to his keys.
“Hello?” John swallowed hard, bracing himself for the worse.
“It’s been a bad night, John, but she’s alright.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” John asked, the anger taking him by surprise. “You know how she gets, Bear, you know the signs as well as I do.”
“I wasn’t working tonight, Maggie was.”
“Maggie knows better than you.”
“Maggie said she was fine when she came in. She only wanted to talk,” Bear said defensively. His tone softened. “You know how Elizabeth is. She blindsides us. One minute she’s sipping coffee, watching the news at the bar and the next she’s ramming a barstool through my jukebox.”
John grimaced. “How much do I owe you this time?”
Bear laughed once. “Maggie stopped her before she could do any major damage.” Glass broke in the background and Bear suddenly became muffled as his hand covered the receiver. John heard a feral scream in the background. He threw on his coat, his laces untied as he shuffled quickly through the house.
“You better come quick,” Bear said suddenly, “She’s worse than I ever seen her.”
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Off to a Meeting.
And when it rains,
it pours,
and the words pour out of me
right about the time
there is something else to do.
And I am pulled away,
and I am sucked down,
and the words dissipate.
it pours,
and the words pour out of me
right about the time
there is something else to do.
And I am pulled away,
and I am sucked down,
and the words dissipate.
All I Want in an Ideal World.
I try to take myself
out of the context of what I see,
of what I hear and smell and know.
I know that I want children.
To feel the joy and frustration
of a mixed and messy and complicated
brood of family.
I also know that I don't want to work
sunup to sunset.
In an ideal world,
I'll publish my first novel.
Experience the joy of a stranger
appreciating something I fished
from the depths of my being.
Make a modest living,
enough to quit my job,
build a nice house,
with a nook all my own,
in which I will have great, wide windows
and walls of books,
and I will write,
and I will write
and I will have children,
and I will write.
And we will be happy.
out of the context of what I see,
of what I hear and smell and know.
I know that I want children.
To feel the joy and frustration
of a mixed and messy and complicated
brood of family.
I also know that I don't want to work
sunup to sunset.
In an ideal world,
I'll publish my first novel.
Experience the joy of a stranger
appreciating something I fished
from the depths of my being.
Make a modest living,
enough to quit my job,
build a nice house,
with a nook all my own,
in which I will have great, wide windows
and walls of books,
and I will write,
and I will write
and I will have children,
and I will write.
And we will be happy.
Self-doubt.
I sit within colorless, windowless walls,
eight hours of artificial light
and conditioned stale air.
I am my own sunlight,
drifting in, telling of the day.
I am my own potted plant,
the delicate, chipper, yellow flower.
I am my own inspiration,
my own experiences.
I am my own desires,
feeling trapped,
knowing what I can be,
unsure of how to...be.
Words I need to express,
worming their way through and out.
So much untapped potential,
because I'm selling myself short.
Fighting against the desperate,
hungry, yearning need to write.
Fighting against the pleasure
of complacency.
Tears of frustration,
the urge of knowing
that untapped greatness,
or at least goodness,
is within me.
Sustained on the faith of knowing
where I am destined.
Hiding from the fear
that my dreams will decay in waste;
that I will wake up one day
and nothing will have evolved
from what is gnawing at me
from the inside out.
I have a feeling,
a great, deep, well of feelings,
that words are my contribution
to the world.
But is it enough?
Am I enough?
I am my own sunshine,
I am my own flower.
But am I enough?
And what will come of me
if I'm not?
eight hours of artificial light
and conditioned stale air.
I am my own sunlight,
drifting in, telling of the day.
I am my own potted plant,
the delicate, chipper, yellow flower.
I am my own inspiration,
my own experiences.
I am my own desires,
feeling trapped,
knowing what I can be,
unsure of how to...be.
Words I need to express,
worming their way through and out.
So much untapped potential,
because I'm selling myself short.
Fighting against the desperate,
hungry, yearning need to write.
Fighting against the pleasure
of complacency.
Tears of frustration,
the urge of knowing
that untapped greatness,
or at least goodness,
is within me.
Sustained on the faith of knowing
where I am destined.
Hiding from the fear
that my dreams will decay in waste;
that I will wake up one day
and nothing will have evolved
from what is gnawing at me
from the inside out.
I have a feeling,
a great, deep, well of feelings,
that words are my contribution
to the world.
But is it enough?
Am I enough?
I am my own sunshine,
I am my own flower.
But am I enough?
And what will come of me
if I'm not?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Doors and Windows
My job didn't go as I thought it would, I didn't get the promotion I was groomed for. I'm not going to go into it; the anger rises like bile and it's hard for me to think around it. It's not about pride, about having to train my supervisor. Its about losing out on a raise that would make life easier to live, that would have been a stepping stone to climbing out of this hole that's been dug for us. It's about the fact that I'm 25 ("Four years older than my son," as one of my supervisors pointed out) and the fact that I have no 'managerial skills'.
When I called the bestest, her words were like balm to my blistered pride, "You are not meant to be here. This is a message telling you to get out! You will look back one day and be so glad you didn't get that position, so glad you didn't get stuck!"
So I've been applying like crazy, staring down a phone that just won't ring and grasping to my dreams, my nose in my laptop every single night, the words and ideas coming slowly, but surely.
It smarts like a smack to the nose every time I come to work; to know that I was groomed to take this position and then to have it snatched away. It's a hard lesson to learn, but one we must: life isn't fair.
I've always known I was destined for bigger things. I'm not talking about my pre-teen aspirations of being a rock-star; no, for me, I want a smaller life, with lots of children and a career that will provide with me a way to take care of them. A large house with my own office (to write of course, the quiet dream I find hard to speak of--the one I feel I'm destined towards).
I've found that when you have a child, your priorities shift. I want a job to grow in to, that fulfills me, that doesn't treat me as a second class citizen just because I'm young and vibrant and opinionated.
I deserve better than this place; I see that now.
So if any of you see any open windows, please give me a shove. I'm finally at a place now where I'm ready to jump.
When I called the bestest, her words were like balm to my blistered pride, "You are not meant to be here. This is a message telling you to get out! You will look back one day and be so glad you didn't get that position, so glad you didn't get stuck!"
So I've been applying like crazy, staring down a phone that just won't ring and grasping to my dreams, my nose in my laptop every single night, the words and ideas coming slowly, but surely.
It smarts like a smack to the nose every time I come to work; to know that I was groomed to take this position and then to have it snatched away. It's a hard lesson to learn, but one we must: life isn't fair.
I've always known I was destined for bigger things. I'm not talking about my pre-teen aspirations of being a rock-star; no, for me, I want a smaller life, with lots of children and a career that will provide with me a way to take care of them. A large house with my own office (to write of course, the quiet dream I find hard to speak of--the one I feel I'm destined towards).
I've found that when you have a child, your priorities shift. I want a job to grow in to, that fulfills me, that doesn't treat me as a second class citizen just because I'm young and vibrant and opinionated.
I deserve better than this place; I see that now.
So if any of you see any open windows, please give me a shove. I'm finally at a place now where I'm ready to jump.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Snippet--Fall Into Me
I followed him into the house; Simon didn’t bother turning on any lights as we passed through each dark room. I was looking forward to a few hours of solace even though I was unsure if I’d ever find it. Too much had been moved, the memories swirling around like dust motes in my brain. My dreams were sure to be vivid and heartbreakingly real.
But I was so tired; I only hoped my mind would give out along with my body.
And I wouldn’t allow myself to think of what tomorrow would bring; that wouldn’t help the night to pass any easier either.
Wordlessly, I made my way up the stairs, Simon moving silently behind me. I heard him stop at his door as I continued up the hall.
“Emily,” he whispered. I was stopped by the ache in his voice, cringing with the knowledge of what he was going to ask. I braced myself against the railing.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
I started to tell him ‘no’, but it was too tempting. I was unsettled from the events of the evening and truth be told, I was lonely. Simon was leaving tomorrow; there would be no repercussions to letting him share my bed just this once.
“Okay.” The volume of my voice was unsettling in the quiet. Simon moved like a ghost past me, eagerly and quickly in case I changed my mind. I stood in the hallway for a second longer, listening to the squeak of my mattress springs as Simon sat on the edge of the bed, the double thunk of his shoes hitting the hard, wooden floors and the familiar sigh of comfort as he settled in on his side. His voice was layered with questions but he only asked one, “Are you coming to bed?”
I answered him wordlessly by shutting the bedroom door. It was so dark Simon couldn’t see me, only hearing my grumbles and complaints as I navigated around the messy obstructions that surrounded the bed. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into my side, leaving a wide space between us in the middle of the bed.
Simon didn’t hesitate as he closed the gap, snuggling up against me so that his breath was moist on the back of my neck. I let him hold me, surrendering to the physical comfort I would never know again.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whispered into the darkness.
His answer was the delicate touch of his lips to the back of my neck. I held very still, unnerved, hoping that his show of affection would end there. But as his lips pressed against my hairline, his hands took hold of my waist, and he rolled me over so that I was forced to look at him, his face obscured by darkness; I was frightened by the silhouette that touched me.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, my body trembling from the unexpected fright. It was a bizarre reaction, to be scared of Simon, especially when I was so comfortable with anger. But the tenderness of his kiss was disarming—I was reduced to tears as his lips found my own.
“Please stop,” I requested weakly, clearing the lump from my throat. He held my hand in his, he felt my trembling, but misinterpreted it.
“Please, please,” He pleaded breathlessly, his voice surprisingly stern; he wasn’t begging, his words hiding his intentions, “Can’t you love me, just tonight? One last night for goodbye?”
I shook my head, hot tears streaming down my face, “I can’t, I can’t,” I repeated over and over. Even though it was dark, I could feel the change in him; his sudden intensity was shocking. His lips moved down my face, to my neck. I pushed against him weakly, I was incapable of stopping him, and I knew it. I was too weak to try, to hurt to cry out.
Simon’s hand moved to my neck, gently but firmly. He grabbed my face and pulled me towards him, smashing his lips into mine, kissing me violently, desperately. My stomach lurched at the contact, at the reminder of intimacy, at the smell of his skin, the familiar touch of his fingertips.
The tears dried up and the fear passed like a wind-whipped storm; I was trapped but I wasn’t scared. Really, what could scare me anymore? What held any true consequences? I had nothing left to lose.
My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could begin to make out his face in the dim light; his eyes were tight, his face a frowning grimace. He was angry and arrogant, taking what rightfully belonged to him. I could see the belittlement, the pain I caused him, the grief from everything we lost, pooling around the corners of his closed eyes. Pent up anger, burning, deep, sprouting from months of verbal abuse and emotional neglect, from circumstances that crippled our marriage, from my eagerness to leave him, for never asking him to stay; his grip was tight with anger.
There was something else I could hardly read in the dark shadows of his face, something that reeked of him, that held his shape together, a recognizable piece in his fuzzy form. Fear, the only emotion that ever owned Simon, was puppet master to his strings. I became more at ease as I recognized the fear, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.
Fear of losing me, of being unable to convince me to stay. Fear of life without me, when he loved me so, loved me the best way he could. Fear that, for once, gave way to anger, fed the anger.
It was the anger that made him a stranger to me, distorting his face so that I didn’t recognize this man who lay on top of me. Every bit of anger Simon should have felt in his entire life—in our entire relationship—was readable in him now. Every bit of hostility he subdued with passiveness was seeping from his furious, determined expression; it was the sharpness to his words, the hard grip of his hands that left deep whelps in my skin.
Simon’s lips lingered briefly, his face hovering above mine. He kissed the tip of my nose tenderly, finally igniting what I searched for within. He might as well have doused me with gasoline, I was angry and alive and strong. His tenderness was a slap in the face, his love a false pretense covering darker motives. I bucked against him, knowing he would fold under any resistance.
But instead of letting go, he held me tighter, speaking through gritted teeth into the curve of my neck, begging in a voice that wasn’t his, “Please, don’t fight me. Can’t you give me one last night after all you’ve put me through? After how I’ve taken care of you? You owe me at least that.”
It felt as if he had hit me, spitting the words out, salt in my open wounds. Like before, I felt an obligation, a need to pacify him. I fought against the instinct, unknowing if I could perform the task he asked of me.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t have a choice.
Simon was kissing my neck again, holding me tightly, removing my clothes. I left my body and became numb, going into the safe haven of my mind. I wondered if he noticed my body going limp as he laid me against the bed. If he noticed the blank, vacant stare in my eyes as he kissed my face.
We weren’t making love. No, this was animalistic, based on desperate need, not desire or passion or love.
I tried to be sorry for the dissension of our marriage, for the hateful person I had become, for the misery I had caused him, but I couldn’t. He saved my life once, regardless of how unnecessary, and I could feel his regret for that mistake in the way his body moved around mine. Simon was wishing I had died; I was dying now—I could feel his mourning through the palpable heat of his touch.
I closed my eyes and thought of Simon. Not as my lover, not as my friend, but as the father of my child. Our child. The father of our child that died. Our four month old child that died in our car, sinking to the bottom of the lake.
I could respect him and love him based on that role alone. I could pretend for a brief moment because I loved him once; I could pretend for a moment, but not for a lifetime. And when the moment passed, I would hate him. Hate him for making me remember, hate him for his regret, hate him for ever loving me in the first place.
But for the moment, I let go of my mind and became exactly what he needed me to be—the only thing this shell of a woman could really offer—a release. I wasn’t Emily, his Emily or this Emily. And it wasn’t Simon either who held me unmercifully in his arms; it wasn’t Simon who ravaged my remains, a coyote pillaging scraps. He wasn’t him and I wasn’t me; it was the first time we ever saw each other so clearly.
When Simon rolled over to resume his usual place in the bed, we didn’t speak or touch or even acknowledge each other.
And when I awoke the next morning, the sun gleaning in through the slight shift of the curtains, he was gone.
But I was so tired; I only hoped my mind would give out along with my body.
And I wouldn’t allow myself to think of what tomorrow would bring; that wouldn’t help the night to pass any easier either.
Wordlessly, I made my way up the stairs, Simon moving silently behind me. I heard him stop at his door as I continued up the hall.
“Emily,” he whispered. I was stopped by the ache in his voice, cringing with the knowledge of what he was going to ask. I braced myself against the railing.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
I started to tell him ‘no’, but it was too tempting. I was unsettled from the events of the evening and truth be told, I was lonely. Simon was leaving tomorrow; there would be no repercussions to letting him share my bed just this once.
“Okay.” The volume of my voice was unsettling in the quiet. Simon moved like a ghost past me, eagerly and quickly in case I changed my mind. I stood in the hallway for a second longer, listening to the squeak of my mattress springs as Simon sat on the edge of the bed, the double thunk of his shoes hitting the hard, wooden floors and the familiar sigh of comfort as he settled in on his side. His voice was layered with questions but he only asked one, “Are you coming to bed?”
I answered him wordlessly by shutting the bedroom door. It was so dark Simon couldn’t see me, only hearing my grumbles and complaints as I navigated around the messy obstructions that surrounded the bed. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into my side, leaving a wide space between us in the middle of the bed.
Simon didn’t hesitate as he closed the gap, snuggling up against me so that his breath was moist on the back of my neck. I let him hold me, surrendering to the physical comfort I would never know again.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whispered into the darkness.
His answer was the delicate touch of his lips to the back of my neck. I held very still, unnerved, hoping that his show of affection would end there. But as his lips pressed against my hairline, his hands took hold of my waist, and he rolled me over so that I was forced to look at him, his face obscured by darkness; I was frightened by the silhouette that touched me.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, my body trembling from the unexpected fright. It was a bizarre reaction, to be scared of Simon, especially when I was so comfortable with anger. But the tenderness of his kiss was disarming—I was reduced to tears as his lips found my own.
“Please stop,” I requested weakly, clearing the lump from my throat. He held my hand in his, he felt my trembling, but misinterpreted it.
“Please, please,” He pleaded breathlessly, his voice surprisingly stern; he wasn’t begging, his words hiding his intentions, “Can’t you love me, just tonight? One last night for goodbye?”
I shook my head, hot tears streaming down my face, “I can’t, I can’t,” I repeated over and over. Even though it was dark, I could feel the change in him; his sudden intensity was shocking. His lips moved down my face, to my neck. I pushed against him weakly, I was incapable of stopping him, and I knew it. I was too weak to try, to hurt to cry out.
Simon’s hand moved to my neck, gently but firmly. He grabbed my face and pulled me towards him, smashing his lips into mine, kissing me violently, desperately. My stomach lurched at the contact, at the reminder of intimacy, at the smell of his skin, the familiar touch of his fingertips.
The tears dried up and the fear passed like a wind-whipped storm; I was trapped but I wasn’t scared. Really, what could scare me anymore? What held any true consequences? I had nothing left to lose.
My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could begin to make out his face in the dim light; his eyes were tight, his face a frowning grimace. He was angry and arrogant, taking what rightfully belonged to him. I could see the belittlement, the pain I caused him, the grief from everything we lost, pooling around the corners of his closed eyes. Pent up anger, burning, deep, sprouting from months of verbal abuse and emotional neglect, from circumstances that crippled our marriage, from my eagerness to leave him, for never asking him to stay; his grip was tight with anger.
There was something else I could hardly read in the dark shadows of his face, something that reeked of him, that held his shape together, a recognizable piece in his fuzzy form. Fear, the only emotion that ever owned Simon, was puppet master to his strings. I became more at ease as I recognized the fear, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.
Fear of losing me, of being unable to convince me to stay. Fear of life without me, when he loved me so, loved me the best way he could. Fear that, for once, gave way to anger, fed the anger.
It was the anger that made him a stranger to me, distorting his face so that I didn’t recognize this man who lay on top of me. Every bit of anger Simon should have felt in his entire life—in our entire relationship—was readable in him now. Every bit of hostility he subdued with passiveness was seeping from his furious, determined expression; it was the sharpness to his words, the hard grip of his hands that left deep whelps in my skin.
Simon’s lips lingered briefly, his face hovering above mine. He kissed the tip of my nose tenderly, finally igniting what I searched for within. He might as well have doused me with gasoline, I was angry and alive and strong. His tenderness was a slap in the face, his love a false pretense covering darker motives. I bucked against him, knowing he would fold under any resistance.
But instead of letting go, he held me tighter, speaking through gritted teeth into the curve of my neck, begging in a voice that wasn’t his, “Please, don’t fight me. Can’t you give me one last night after all you’ve put me through? After how I’ve taken care of you? You owe me at least that.”
It felt as if he had hit me, spitting the words out, salt in my open wounds. Like before, I felt an obligation, a need to pacify him. I fought against the instinct, unknowing if I could perform the task he asked of me.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t have a choice.
Simon was kissing my neck again, holding me tightly, removing my clothes. I left my body and became numb, going into the safe haven of my mind. I wondered if he noticed my body going limp as he laid me against the bed. If he noticed the blank, vacant stare in my eyes as he kissed my face.
We weren’t making love. No, this was animalistic, based on desperate need, not desire or passion or love.
I tried to be sorry for the dissension of our marriage, for the hateful person I had become, for the misery I had caused him, but I couldn’t. He saved my life once, regardless of how unnecessary, and I could feel his regret for that mistake in the way his body moved around mine. Simon was wishing I had died; I was dying now—I could feel his mourning through the palpable heat of his touch.
I closed my eyes and thought of Simon. Not as my lover, not as my friend, but as the father of my child. Our child. The father of our child that died. Our four month old child that died in our car, sinking to the bottom of the lake.
I could respect him and love him based on that role alone. I could pretend for a brief moment because I loved him once; I could pretend for a moment, but not for a lifetime. And when the moment passed, I would hate him. Hate him for making me remember, hate him for his regret, hate him for ever loving me in the first place.
But for the moment, I let go of my mind and became exactly what he needed me to be—the only thing this shell of a woman could really offer—a release. I wasn’t Emily, his Emily or this Emily. And it wasn’t Simon either who held me unmercifully in his arms; it wasn’t Simon who ravaged my remains, a coyote pillaging scraps. He wasn’t him and I wasn’t me; it was the first time we ever saw each other so clearly.
When Simon rolled over to resume his usual place in the bed, we didn’t speak or touch or even acknowledge each other.
And when I awoke the next morning, the sun gleaning in through the slight shift of the curtains, he was gone.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
WTF?
I got my period this morning, a day late.
Why was I ever so slightly dissapointed?
I'm a glutton for punishment.
Don't get too excited, dear loved ones. The brief moment of insanity passed.
Why was I ever so slightly dissapointed?
I'm a glutton for punishment.
Don't get too excited, dear loved ones. The brief moment of insanity passed.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Life can be ugly.
I woke up this morning and was running late for work. I'm always late for work--I'm glad I don't work with someone who minds or even notices. It was freezing but I never notice when I run outside, still hot from the house and the chaos of being a person who is perpetually late. It's why I never wear a jacket--because I always think, 'it's not that cold...'.
The end blip of news on the radio was that a water main break burst in Fairburn and Hwy 29 was closed. Great--the street I have to cross to get to work. Then I decided it wasn't such a bad thing--after all, it gave me a reason to be late.
But as I drew close to the little white bride, I noticed the gray smoke, the movement of water squirting in the air, the ashed, burn edges of buildings that have stood in the center of town for all of my life, for all of my Mother's life and for all my Grandmother's life.
Our town burned last night--OZ, Casablanca, the antique mall. It was a shock to see my city so wounded, crippled.
I looked at pictures later--blurry snapshots posted on a news website, the flames licking the night sky, demon eyes of swirling, orange fire feasting on my town, on my memories.
With tears in my eyes, I walked through two blistering cold parking lots, too shocked to feel the 26 degree weather or to remember my breakfast in the car. The backs of the buildings were horrific shells, reminders of how ugly life can be. How beautiful, how powerful, how warm and how cold--it can be all those things simultaneously.
So I don't know where to direct this post--whether I should dwell on the spring nights, when warmer whether draws us out, when me, Anth, Robert and Amanda would get the same idea to go for a meandering walks, the echo of our laughter, of our banter, disappear like the smoke rising from the burning embers of those evenings. Or whether I should remind everyone that life can change in an instant, that destruction doesn't come without the chance at new life. Or maybe I should be hopeful, rallying for my town--this will make us stronger, we will persevere (!) But mostly, I can't help but think about my childhood--the old buildings, the familiar musty smell of the antique shop, Linda's friendly face making me a deal, the over-priced food at Casablanca and the upstairs where I always dreamed of throwing my parent's an anniversary party. My mind is swirling with the past, the background to my memories, the touchstone of my reality--hell, even my book is set in that building--in the glass of Oz Pizza, on the worn, wooden floors of Casablanca's upstairs.
I took my last ride through Fairburn last night and I didn't even know it--the Fairburn as it will always be remembered, at least. Anth was driving and I was sleepy, my focus on the future, pouty-lipped and sleeping in the back seat. Little did I know, that in three short hours, it would all go up in a blaze of beautiful wonder, not knowing that when I woke up, life would be different.
I'm mourning the loss of those buildings like the death of a loved one. I keep realizing I have a catch in my throat, swollen, and I push it away, try to remember that others will probably think I'm being a teensy bit dramatic.
Why couldn't the rotting areas, with used furniture and decaying buildings and sprinkler systems, burn to the ground? The foreclosed houses or even the dry cleaners? Places that could be rebuilt without thinking about the ghosts of the history that were sent up in smoke?
Life doesn't work that way--it's ugly and unfair, captivating, mesmorizing.
The end blip of news on the radio was that a water main break burst in Fairburn and Hwy 29 was closed. Great--the street I have to cross to get to work. Then I decided it wasn't such a bad thing--after all, it gave me a reason to be late.
But as I drew close to the little white bride, I noticed the gray smoke, the movement of water squirting in the air, the ashed, burn edges of buildings that have stood in the center of town for all of my life, for all of my Mother's life and for all my Grandmother's life.
Our town burned last night--OZ, Casablanca, the antique mall. It was a shock to see my city so wounded, crippled.
I looked at pictures later--blurry snapshots posted on a news website, the flames licking the night sky, demon eyes of swirling, orange fire feasting on my town, on my memories.
With tears in my eyes, I walked through two blistering cold parking lots, too shocked to feel the 26 degree weather or to remember my breakfast in the car. The backs of the buildings were horrific shells, reminders of how ugly life can be. How beautiful, how powerful, how warm and how cold--it can be all those things simultaneously.
So I don't know where to direct this post--whether I should dwell on the spring nights, when warmer whether draws us out, when me, Anth, Robert and Amanda would get the same idea to go for a meandering walks, the echo of our laughter, of our banter, disappear like the smoke rising from the burning embers of those evenings. Or whether I should remind everyone that life can change in an instant, that destruction doesn't come without the chance at new life. Or maybe I should be hopeful, rallying for my town--this will make us stronger, we will persevere (!) But mostly, I can't help but think about my childhood--the old buildings, the familiar musty smell of the antique shop, Linda's friendly face making me a deal, the over-priced food at Casablanca and the upstairs where I always dreamed of throwing my parent's an anniversary party. My mind is swirling with the past, the background to my memories, the touchstone of my reality--hell, even my book is set in that building--in the glass of Oz Pizza, on the worn, wooden floors of Casablanca's upstairs.
I took my last ride through Fairburn last night and I didn't even know it--the Fairburn as it will always be remembered, at least. Anth was driving and I was sleepy, my focus on the future, pouty-lipped and sleeping in the back seat. Little did I know, that in three short hours, it would all go up in a blaze of beautiful wonder, not knowing that when I woke up, life would be different.
I'm mourning the loss of those buildings like the death of a loved one. I keep realizing I have a catch in my throat, swollen, and I push it away, try to remember that others will probably think I'm being a teensy bit dramatic.
Why couldn't the rotting areas, with used furniture and decaying buildings and sprinkler systems, burn to the ground? The foreclosed houses or even the dry cleaners? Places that could be rebuilt without thinking about the ghosts of the history that were sent up in smoke?
Life doesn't work that way--it's ugly and unfair, captivating, mesmorizing.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Snippet from 'Fall Into Me'
“There she goes again. The martyr.” Marilyn sneered. She met everyone’s eyes for confirmation, only to find herself alone in her opinion. Their sympathetic attempt at understanding unnerved me—I felt the threads come loose as everything I tried to hide overflowed.
Unlike Marilyn, each one of my family could see in their own way how much her accusation was unfounded. It was clear to Claire in my vacant eyes that held no hope; Jack couldn’t get past the rail thin bones of my wrists. Gordy heard my unintentional calls of distress clearly—I could see his vow to help me in the determined squint of his eye.
Simon was the only one who could give first hand testament to the meanings behind my behavior. He understood that I was no claimless victim vying for attention. It was clear to him in the most obvious way; in the way that he ignored because it frightened his pragmatic nature, causing him to question everything he ever believed.
He saw the frightening truth behind my sorrow in the way I yearned to die.
Unlike Marilyn, each one of my family could see in their own way how much her accusation was unfounded. It was clear to Claire in my vacant eyes that held no hope; Jack couldn’t get past the rail thin bones of my wrists. Gordy heard my unintentional calls of distress clearly—I could see his vow to help me in the determined squint of his eye.
Simon was the only one who could give first hand testament to the meanings behind my behavior. He understood that I was no claimless victim vying for attention. It was clear to him in the most obvious way; in the way that he ignored because it frightened his pragmatic nature, causing him to question everything he ever believed.
He saw the frightening truth behind my sorrow in the way I yearned to die.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
One Year.
I want to be happy; I should be cursed for crying. My baby is one. One year old.
So as we sang happy birthday to my sweet little boy, I couldn't help but be taken back a year. 365 days before, I was lying in a hospital bed, ripped open and stitched up; sore and exhausted; about 65lbs heavier with a tiny, squirming newborn to call my own. He was sturdy and advanced--that certainly hasn't changed--in fact, it's been his defining characteristic.
I never thought I'd feel this way; the bittersweet division of two wants. I want him to grow, flourish, develop. Yet.
I want him to stay one forever.
I keep telling myself the best is yet to come. That I have 4 more years of 'baby' (6 is my cut-off point; that is when they stop being cute and start being annoying).
We went for a walk yesterday. It was the first time the weather has been nice enough to go out since Oliver became a pro at walking in shoes. I set him down at the top of the driveway and encouraged him to follow me. He took one wide-eyed look at the 'big, outside place' and immediately whined.
But, being the trooper that he is, he reluctantly walked down the driveway, clutching one of my fingers with his fat little hand. Then he saw his Daddy at the bottom of the driveway and he was a little braver.
We walked a small section of our little street. When he had Mommy on one side and Daddy on the other, clutching each of our fingers, he was brave, stomping and humming, so proud of himself, excited to be out in the sunshine.
But as soon as we let him go, he was a leach around my leg.
I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy this show of dependency; Oliver is the type of boy who would rather be free than cuddle. I take what I can get from him.
In moments like these, I'm sad knowing that one day he'll be too big to grab my legs and hide. Even though I'm just in the beginning of his life, I can't stop myself from thinking about him as an adult. Some people miss their lives by rushing through them; I think I miss mine by thinking too hard about it. I try to enjoy the moment too much--and I end up feeling sad.
We had a nice weekend--it is utterly heartwarming to see a community of people gather to celebrate the life of my son, to honor him. I see genuine smiles and laughter from people that aren't his biological family when he dances with one shoulder and my heart is warm and full; to know that people love him who don't have to love him is my own secret victory.
I often tell Ollie that he is perhaps the most loved boy in the world. It's been my mission this year to build for Oliver a community of family; so that he will never be able to question whether he was loved or not. His biological family alone adores him, worships him in a way I hope isn't reserved for the first born.
But, that love is something familiar to me. I am special to my family and therefore my children are special.
There is nothing that stitches up the wounds of a family like a new child. I've seen it first hand. The love of a child cleanses the bitterness; heals old, festering wounds; unites us in a way that before would have been impossible. I, too, have been changed. I can't help but love the people who love my child.
So as we sang happy birthday to my sweet little boy, I couldn't help but be taken back a year. 365 days before, I was lying in a hospital bed, ripped open and stitched up; sore and exhausted; about 65lbs heavier with a tiny, squirming newborn to call my own. He was sturdy and advanced--that certainly hasn't changed--in fact, it's been his defining characteristic.Now he can call the dogs and ask for Dada and dance to the opening music to the 'Office'. He can walk across the room to give you a kiss when you ask for one and throw his bottle out of the highchair on purpose; he can do wrong and know he's doing wrong; he can miss you when you leave; he is happy when you return.
One year.
By the end of our walk, we stood at the open mouth of our driveway. Oliver relaxed as soon as we were in our yard, his yard. I remember the first time we tried to play outside--he could barely stand in the grass with shoes on. Now he can navigate over the uneven stones of the path with ease; pulling himself up when he stumbles.
We watched with amused and amazed eyes as Oliver caught a glance of his kitties. He rounded the corner of the house and went out of view. We waited to hear his cry when he realized he was alone. After a few moments of silence, we peeked around the house. We laughed at our one year old chasing the cats up the driveway, completely alone, without a care in the world.
When we finally snuck up behind him, he was shaking the fence and saying his hello to Boo on the other side. He didn't even acknowledge that we suddenly appeared; maybe he knew we were near the entire time. Or maybe he considers the cats the comfort equivalent of his parents.
Either way, it was so Oliver we couldn't help but beam with pride.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
What we leave behind.
There is a plaid Tommy Hilfiger dress that I wore once on the day I graduated from high school. It is stored in an air-tight bag taking up much needed space on the rack of my tiny closet. Why do I even bother to keep it?
My initial response is that I hope to some day wear it again; I hold on to some foolish dream that I will one day be able to get it past my thighs. The reality is I’m still carrying the freshman 15 (and then some) from college; my body stretched and changed from carrying a child; my hips are wider, my stomach round and soft. I don’t mourn for the firmer, thinner body of my youth—the body that was never loved by a man or delighted from the kick of a child from very deep inside. To hold on to it for vanity’s sake is such a waste— of time, of energy and of closet space.
Part of me clings to the dress simply as a token of my youth; to be able to marvel at how thin I used to be—a piece of evidence that I really existed. I loved that dress—it represents so much to me. Graduation, beauty, heartbreak, renewal, becoming a woman. To be able to feel the fabric between my thumb and forefinger is physical evidence that I truly existed. That wonderful time in my life—the end of one thing, on the verge of another, anticipation so sweet and thick in the air—with nothing but success and dreams in your future—was so brief, so short; I often wonder if I truly lived it.
So much meaning stored in that tiny bit of picnic plaid fabric.
I was talking about this very concept the other night with a group of women in my family; all of whom have clothes they keep with hope and wistfulness. One has already given up the ghost and tossed them; another can still wear hers from middle school. The last, my cousin, still clings feverishly to hers with hope as I do. The words came out of my mouth, speaking out of turn as I usually do, declaring that I hoped my daughter would one day want to wear the clothes I kept.
The reason took me off guard even as I uttered the words. I realized then that this dress was just one of the many relics I’ve saved and stored away with hopes that my kids will want them one day—or at least get a kick out of.
There are many times when I am flipping through the pages of my own Mother’s life—I see an outfit that I wish she had saved for me. She is full of regret of her wastefulness, describing wistfully in full detail each item in her wardrobe that she loved; some relic from her youth that made it real. I wished she had saved them for me—so that I too could relive a part of her life with her—while sporting a ‘vintage’ outfit.
The regret my Mother feels has been passed down to me, turning me into a pack rat of remnants of my own life that will inevitably be pushed on to my children. I looked around my bedroom, through my jewelry box and on the shelves in my home; counting the things I have collected to pass on.
This is all her—my Mother’s—fault, you know. My name is even a hand-me-down (Mollie is my Mema’s name and Elizabeth “Libby” is her Mother’s name; I can’t help the insanity—it runs through my blood like rabies).
My Mom and I talk—we talk about this all the time—about the accumulated clutter she’ll leave behind and most importantly, who will get what. My husband, Anthony, always tunes us out when the subject of our deaths becomes the topic of conversation—as it inevitably does. My brother calls me greedy as I walk about with post-it notes declaring that everything is mine, mine and mine (I can’t bare to imagine parting with the objects that are the sentimental background of my childhood). My Mother and I defend our stance with practicality. Death is such a chore; besides being devastated, you have to deal with the funeral, the burial and the house-full of stuff you’re supposed to divvy out amongst your siblings. So won’t it make it that much easier if we already have dibs on what will be ours to keep and cherish? My brother says no, my Dad frowns and my husband turns up the television.
What is it about these sentimental relics that provide me with so much comfort? When my Mother dies, she will no longer be here, yet I feel as though I will be closer to her when clutching the feathered necklace that she adores and never wears. I worry that I will turn into a junkyard dog, pacing the length of her house, growling at whomever tries to move a piece of Gouda to sell (which I hate by the way…). I fear I may become one of those emotional hoarders, living in my own filth, surrounded by a tower of boxes full of things I will never use or even look at again.
And if at 25 I have already accumulated a houseful of things to pass on to my children, not to mention the boxes and boxes of things from my parents—how will my children have room for a life of their own? The photo albums alone will need their own designated storage building.
And doesn’t an over-accumulation of things diminish the value of those few pieces that are truly significant?
How do you even begin to pick what to save as a physical, immortal relic of yourself for your children to figuratively hold on to when you pass?
OK—so I know I’m being a little dramatic here—but I truly believe that the possessions of my loved ones will help keep them alive in my heart. I can’t possibly know this—as I have been fortunate enough to have never lost someone near and dear—but it seems logical to me.
I suppose it will be up to my children to decide. The Tommy Hilfiger dress is completely out of fashion even now and my daughter (I only have one child, a son by the way) will most likely hate it and mock me mercilessly for ever donning it. I will be seven hundred pounds by then (it’s hard to exercise when you’re living in your own filth behind a tower of boxes…) and the dress won’t even fit over my leg, if moths haven’t eaten it to pieces by then.
My children probably won’t be capable of deciding as I will have emotionally crippled them as my parents have done me—instilling life and memories in objects that will hardly stand up to the test of time (things aren’t made as well anymore—that alone will solve part of my problem…). I can hear my Dad’s sad voice in my head as he carefully replaces the maudlin, Christmas ornaments back in their perfectly preserved boxes, “I can’t stand the thought of the kids selling the Hallmark ornaments for $.25 at a yard sale…we’ve collected them for years”
You don’t even want to know how many of my closets will be taken-over by boxes of ornaments I don’t even like…all because I can’t stand the thought of hurting their already-dead feelings…
And to a degree, I understand how my Dad feels. I, too, can’t imagine the objects that are my parents selling for pennies at a garage sell; the apron my Mom used to wear as a little girl growing moldy in someone’s garage; my Grandmother’s white hutch being sold for nothing at an auction, only to be stripped and painted some god-awful version of fuchsia!
These are our heirlooms, for crying out loud! These things are my family! These things are our history!
I’ll be the first to tell you I need to take a step back, calm it down a bit and look at this personal crisis from a more objective point. I know I should let go of my possessions and not feel the need to be immortalized in the box of outdated clothes and jewelry I pass down to my children.
Like this crazy obsession, there are pieces and traits of me and Anthony that will trickle down into our children, grand-children and great-grand-children—we all live through those who come after us, who would never be if it wasn’t for us.
Shouldn't that be enough?
I myself have characteristics whose origins I wonder about: what great-great relative is living through me now—right now—as I peck away on my computer? Whoever it was, I thank them—the delight and pleasure of gifted gab is much more useful than a feathered necklace or a piece of pottery I don’t even like.
I’m not saying I’m going to throw away everything tomorrow; but I am going to start the general process of distancing myself from the things I have deep, meaningful connections with and concentrate more on the people in my life; not the objects that remind me of them. I am going to strive to save less for the long run—at least for my children’s sake—letting them choose what they want to remember me by.
The necklace that I have replicated on my foot, I believe, is timeless—and it’s one of things I hope will be passed on one day as it is now literally a part of me. I suppose whatever survives the test of time will really be worth saving—like my wedding band, the photographs, scrapbooks and journals as well as the videos of our son giggling and cooing into the camera. And I hope, sincerely hope, that my children have enough happy memories of their parents, with tons of wacky, off-the-wall stories and remarkable pictures to capture us through time—that they will be secure enough in their own hearts to let go of the physical possessions that are meaningless without the stories behind them…
But I have to say the only truly amazing piece of my self that I’ve contributed to this world is my son, Oliver; with my smile and his Daddy’s profile—he is the best possible thing we could ever leave behind…in the end, he’s the only thing we leave behind…
…that and a dozen boxes of junk that his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping…
Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong; perhaps I shouldn't be concentrating on the things we abscond. Instead, I should focus on what we take with us. The memories, the love, the friendships—the truly good stuff in life. I believe those things leave with us and are the fabric of our very souls.
I’ll leave everything else for our kids to sort out. Anthony and I will only take the good stuff with us; the only thing really worth cherishing in the end.
The rest of the stuff—a dozen boxes of junk his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping will hopefully be offset by a good chunk of inheritance to pay for the storage complex large enough to amass several generations worth of crap his vain, pack-rat of a family found meaningful enough to leave behind.
Oliver can dump my ashes in with my Mom’s—in that ancient piece of Gouda she will inevitably force me to store her remains in.
I may hate the atrocious brown and green patterned pottery, but at least it’ll free up a little space on his mantel for his own personal relics…or even maybe a picture of his dear old Mother?
I’m nothing if not practical, right?
My initial response is that I hope to some day wear it again; I hold on to some foolish dream that I will one day be able to get it past my thighs. The reality is I’m still carrying the freshman 15 (and then some) from college; my body stretched and changed from carrying a child; my hips are wider, my stomach round and soft. I don’t mourn for the firmer, thinner body of my youth—the body that was never loved by a man or delighted from the kick of a child from very deep inside. To hold on to it for vanity’s sake is such a waste— of time, of energy and of closet space.
Part of me clings to the dress simply as a token of my youth; to be able to marvel at how thin I used to be—a piece of evidence that I really existed. I loved that dress—it represents so much to me. Graduation, beauty, heartbreak, renewal, becoming a woman. To be able to feel the fabric between my thumb and forefinger is physical evidence that I truly existed. That wonderful time in my life—the end of one thing, on the verge of another, anticipation so sweet and thick in the air—with nothing but success and dreams in your future—was so brief, so short; I often wonder if I truly lived it.
So much meaning stored in that tiny bit of picnic plaid fabric.
I was talking about this very concept the other night with a group of women in my family; all of whom have clothes they keep with hope and wistfulness. One has already given up the ghost and tossed them; another can still wear hers from middle school. The last, my cousin, still clings feverishly to hers with hope as I do. The words came out of my mouth, speaking out of turn as I usually do, declaring that I hoped my daughter would one day want to wear the clothes I kept.
The reason took me off guard even as I uttered the words. I realized then that this dress was just one of the many relics I’ve saved and stored away with hopes that my kids will want them one day—or at least get a kick out of.
There are many times when I am flipping through the pages of my own Mother’s life—I see an outfit that I wish she had saved for me. She is full of regret of her wastefulness, describing wistfully in full detail each item in her wardrobe that she loved; some relic from her youth that made it real. I wished she had saved them for me—so that I too could relive a part of her life with her—while sporting a ‘vintage’ outfit.
The regret my Mother feels has been passed down to me, turning me into a pack rat of remnants of my own life that will inevitably be pushed on to my children. I looked around my bedroom, through my jewelry box and on the shelves in my home; counting the things I have collected to pass on.
This is all her—my Mother’s—fault, you know. My name is even a hand-me-down (Mollie is my Mema’s name and Elizabeth “Libby” is her Mother’s name; I can’t help the insanity—it runs through my blood like rabies).
My Mom and I talk—we talk about this all the time—about the accumulated clutter she’ll leave behind and most importantly, who will get what. My husband, Anthony, always tunes us out when the subject of our deaths becomes the topic of conversation—as it inevitably does. My brother calls me greedy as I walk about with post-it notes declaring that everything is mine, mine and mine (I can’t bare to imagine parting with the objects that are the sentimental background of my childhood). My Mother and I defend our stance with practicality. Death is such a chore; besides being devastated, you have to deal with the funeral, the burial and the house-full of stuff you’re supposed to divvy out amongst your siblings. So won’t it make it that much easier if we already have dibs on what will be ours to keep and cherish? My brother says no, my Dad frowns and my husband turns up the television.
What is it about these sentimental relics that provide me with so much comfort? When my Mother dies, she will no longer be here, yet I feel as though I will be closer to her when clutching the feathered necklace that she adores and never wears. I worry that I will turn into a junkyard dog, pacing the length of her house, growling at whomever tries to move a piece of Gouda to sell (which I hate by the way…). I fear I may become one of those emotional hoarders, living in my own filth, surrounded by a tower of boxes full of things I will never use or even look at again.
And if at 25 I have already accumulated a houseful of things to pass on to my children, not to mention the boxes and boxes of things from my parents—how will my children have room for a life of their own? The photo albums alone will need their own designated storage building.
And doesn’t an over-accumulation of things diminish the value of those few pieces that are truly significant?
How do you even begin to pick what to save as a physical, immortal relic of yourself for your children to figuratively hold on to when you pass?
OK—so I know I’m being a little dramatic here—but I truly believe that the possessions of my loved ones will help keep them alive in my heart. I can’t possibly know this—as I have been fortunate enough to have never lost someone near and dear—but it seems logical to me.
I suppose it will be up to my children to decide. The Tommy Hilfiger dress is completely out of fashion even now and my daughter (I only have one child, a son by the way) will most likely hate it and mock me mercilessly for ever donning it. I will be seven hundred pounds by then (it’s hard to exercise when you’re living in your own filth behind a tower of boxes…) and the dress won’t even fit over my leg, if moths haven’t eaten it to pieces by then.
My children probably won’t be capable of deciding as I will have emotionally crippled them as my parents have done me—instilling life and memories in objects that will hardly stand up to the test of time (things aren’t made as well anymore—that alone will solve part of my problem…). I can hear my Dad’s sad voice in my head as he carefully replaces the maudlin, Christmas ornaments back in their perfectly preserved boxes, “I can’t stand the thought of the kids selling the Hallmark ornaments for $.25 at a yard sale…we’ve collected them for years”
You don’t even want to know how many of my closets will be taken-over by boxes of ornaments I don’t even like…all because I can’t stand the thought of hurting their already-dead feelings…
And to a degree, I understand how my Dad feels. I, too, can’t imagine the objects that are my parents selling for pennies at a garage sell; the apron my Mom used to wear as a little girl growing moldy in someone’s garage; my Grandmother’s white hutch being sold for nothing at an auction, only to be stripped and painted some god-awful version of fuchsia!
These are our heirlooms, for crying out loud! These things are my family! These things are our history!
I’ll be the first to tell you I need to take a step back, calm it down a bit and look at this personal crisis from a more objective point. I know I should let go of my possessions and not feel the need to be immortalized in the box of outdated clothes and jewelry I pass down to my children.
Like this crazy obsession, there are pieces and traits of me and Anthony that will trickle down into our children, grand-children and great-grand-children—we all live through those who come after us, who would never be if it wasn’t for us.
Shouldn't that be enough?
I myself have characteristics whose origins I wonder about: what great-great relative is living through me now—right now—as I peck away on my computer? Whoever it was, I thank them—the delight and pleasure of gifted gab is much more useful than a feathered necklace or a piece of pottery I don’t even like.
I’m not saying I’m going to throw away everything tomorrow; but I am going to start the general process of distancing myself from the things I have deep, meaningful connections with and concentrate more on the people in my life; not the objects that remind me of them. I am going to strive to save less for the long run—at least for my children’s sake—letting them choose what they want to remember me by.
The necklace that I have replicated on my foot, I believe, is timeless—and it’s one of things I hope will be passed on one day as it is now literally a part of me. I suppose whatever survives the test of time will really be worth saving—like my wedding band, the photographs, scrapbooks and journals as well as the videos of our son giggling and cooing into the camera. And I hope, sincerely hope, that my children have enough happy memories of their parents, with tons of wacky, off-the-wall stories and remarkable pictures to capture us through time—that they will be secure enough in their own hearts to let go of the physical possessions that are meaningless without the stories behind them…
But I have to say the only truly amazing piece of my self that I’ve contributed to this world is my son, Oliver; with my smile and his Daddy’s profile—he is the best possible thing we could ever leave behind…in the end, he’s the only thing we leave behind…
…that and a dozen boxes of junk that his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping…
Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong; perhaps I shouldn't be concentrating on the things we abscond. Instead, I should focus on what we take with us. The memories, the love, the friendships—the truly good stuff in life. I believe those things leave with us and are the fabric of our very souls.
I’ll leave everything else for our kids to sort out. Anthony and I will only take the good stuff with us; the only thing really worth cherishing in the end.
The rest of the stuff—a dozen boxes of junk his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping will hopefully be offset by a good chunk of inheritance to pay for the storage complex large enough to amass several generations worth of crap his vain, pack-rat of a family found meaningful enough to leave behind.
Oliver can dump my ashes in with my Mom’s—in that ancient piece of Gouda she will inevitably force me to store her remains in.
I may hate the atrocious brown and green patterned pottery, but at least it’ll free up a little space on his mantel for his own personal relics…or even maybe a picture of his dear old Mother?
I’m nothing if not practical, right?
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