My parents divorced when I was 10. I remember being very angry at my father for most of my childhood, and telling my mom over and over–with that high volume passion and know-it-all-ness that’s absolutely characteristic of how I show up in the world–how much I hated him and wished they would just get a divorce. I railed about how terrible he was to her and how she deserved better. How he didn’t care and didn’t love us and certainly didn’t deserve us. I was eight and nine and ten and absolutely positive I knew what was best for my family. I was always, always right.
At my Memaw’s service a few weeks ago, my Pappap spoke about their life together. Fifty-seven crazy long years, packed full of love and humor and lots of mistakes. He told a story I hadn’t heard about how, years and years ago when they were first married and he was spending most of his time fucking around in bars, my Memaw packed her things and took their five kids to live with her mother–and did so probably rightfully, considering who he was as a husband at the time.
He expressed his deepest regrets about what he put her through, and also his deepest joy and gratitude that they were eventually able to make it work. I don’t think I’ve known a couple more in love, though I never realized it growing up. That’s who my Memaw was: she held the family together. She was the glue or sticky tack or duct tape depending on the situation. That’s just who she was for us, and we are all better for it.
Maybe at least part of what hit me this weekend is the awareness that that’s who I want to be for my family–both the family I was born into as well as the one I’ll start someday. The woman who lives the Truth that Love is powerful and unconditional, the woman who exemplifies the strength that bond.
I found a picture in my Uncle’s box that healed my heart and broke it to pieces at the very same time. I held on to it most of the night Saturday and lost it sometime after beer number eight (gotta love day drinking at sea level): A family portrait from when I was 8 and Bobby was 9 and Megan was 6 and my parents were far younger than I remember them seeming at the time. I remember having the portrait taken. I don’t remember why, at that age, I wanted nothing more in the world than for that family to be ripped apart. I was sad and angry and thought them splitting up was the fix. It turned out to be the wound that never healed.
If I could take anything back, I think it would be that. This “I fly solo” shit is the mask I wear to protect myself from the vulnerability and messiness of being fully and unabashedly in relationships. I don’t wanna live my life a runaway. I don’t want things being hard to be an easy out. I wanna be glue and sticky tack and duct tape when everything and everyone around me is falling apart. That’s what I got from the weekend, and it’s a lesson I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.
For Ms. Dorelyn Gayle Bennett. With all my love, admiration and respect. A hundred more years on this Earth wouldn’t have been enough. We’ll miss you and hold you in our hearts forever.
The Sound of Heartstrings 