Shae faded. Or rather, my dependency did. We moved away from the death of our – but no, it was never our baby. It was a bundle of cellular matter. But it my head, she's still real. Fingers and freckles and my curly hair.
Papa got sicker and my mother conceded to despair; a broken foot and a bottle of vodka, and within a year, a three-day stint in an Orlando hospital.
But I jump ahead.
These things though, once so drawn out, are blips, red bits blaring danger pain sorrow in memory. It all seemed to happen so slowly, seemed unending, but now the episodes flit by. Such is time.
The same October I got my calves tattooed and became a monstrosity to Shae – notice, he did not leave – my mother broke her foot. She tripped, early in the morning on her way to start the coffee, and crushed it. Father now convinced she was already drinking herself to death, but I'm not positive.
The grandfather I mention might as well have been my father, and my father's father. He was the rock and the solace for all three of us. We loved him desperately. And even writing this now, tears are coming to remind me of just how much, just how lucky I was to have him. He was undeniably the only positive influence through my terrible-teens. He was my best friend. He was peace. He was wisdom. He was the childish reassurance that things would be better, would only get better, that life was ever-giving no matter what it took. But then, it took him.
The mother I want to trust devoted her life to him. She lived to keep him well and happy, and independent but for us. And without that capability, she sank deep deep into the mire of self doubt and pity.
Even now it rankles me, makes me indignant and feeling petulant. All through this, all through the preparation to lose him as he ailed, through the trying to remedy his pains and keep him happy, keep the depression that comes with utter dependance away from him, she mourned her loss of purpose, she felt abandoned, she felt useless and
Papa got sicker and my mother conceded to despair; a broken foot and a bottle of vodka, and within a year, a three-day stint in an Orlando hospital.
But I jump ahead.
These things though, once so drawn out, are blips, red bits blaring danger pain sorrow in memory. It all seemed to happen so slowly, seemed unending, but now the episodes flit by. Such is time.
The same October I got my calves tattooed and became a monstrosity to Shae – notice, he did not leave – my mother broke her foot. She tripped, early in the morning on her way to start the coffee, and crushed it. Father now convinced she was already drinking herself to death, but I'm not positive.
The grandfather I mention might as well have been my father, and my father's father. He was the rock and the solace for all three of us. We loved him desperately. And even writing this now, tears are coming to remind me of just how much, just how lucky I was to have him. He was undeniably the only positive influence through my terrible-teens. He was my best friend. He was peace. He was wisdom. He was the childish reassurance that things would be better, would only get better, that life was ever-giving no matter what it took. But then, it took him.
The mother I want to trust devoted her life to him. She lived to keep him well and happy, and independent but for us. And without that capability, she sank deep deep into the mire of self doubt and pity.
Even now it rankles me, makes me indignant and feeling petulant. All through this, all through the preparation to lose him as he ailed, through the trying to remedy his pains and keep him happy, keep the depression that comes with utter dependance away from him, she mourned her loss of purpose, she felt abandoned, she felt useless and
