Farinelli

Here is this week:

We don’t need a map…but sometimes it seems as if it would be easier if a life map was provided at birth.  Can you imagine knowing your path from the beginning?  How would you have done things differently?  It comes back to the saying, “if I knew then, what I know now…” 

…I would have never started dating him.

…I would have hugged my dad a little longer.

…I would have moved away for college.

…I would have tried to understand my mother’s choices.

…I would have taken some road trips, alone.

…I would have stood my ground.

…I would have had no fears.

But the reality of this world is that there is no map, no clear cut path to take.  The paths that present themselves are shaped by the decisions we make and things we choose.  So this secret is correct, we don’t need a map to follow, we have our hearts.

Dear Step-Mother,

I thought about you today.  I thought about what I would do if I ran into you.  You see, I was at the hospital visiting a person from the other side of my chaotic family web.  While I was walking down the cold, echoing halls, I envisioned seeing you and making eye contact with you.  I envisioned ignoring you with a smug look on my face.  Were you working today? 

I have so many questions for you, though.  I don’t understand why you left Sister and I behind a year after Dad died.  I thought we were important in your life, but yet we were not invited to your wedding.  And when Sister and I needed you the most on Dad’s year death anniversary, you tell us that Dad committed suicide.  When asked, you refuse to give either of us a copy of his death certificate or autopsy.  Hiding something?

Luckily I am not one to be afraid of things.  I got Sister and I copies of his death certificate.  It doesn’t say that he killed himself.  Dad died a natural death.  So why lie?  I have my theories on the events of that evening.  Only you, Dad and God really know what happened.  I just hope both you and Dad chose wisely…and God can forgive.

Your birthday just passed.  I thought of you on that day…wondering how you were celebrating your 42 birthday.  Were you with your new husband?  I almost called you.

You are different…but then again, so am I.  I don’t understand you any longer…but I guess it doesn’t matter considering you are not talking to me…not calling me…no longer a part of my life.

It was hard losing my father.  You were suppose to be there.  I will never forgive you.

I’m sitting in my family room today, enjoying the sounds of silence.  The only noise comes from the motor on the refrigerator, the tapping of my fingers on the laptop and the occasional moan from this old house.  As I survey my surroundings, I question whether this feels like home.  It’s my house, but is it my home? 

What does it mean to have a home?  What does home really mean?   The definition of home is this: A place where one lives, such as a house or an apartment.  For me a home is more than just a place to live.  It is a place of safety, comfort, security, love and most of all belonging.  To me ‘home’ is a feeling. 

When I was little, I had a home.  And this home was warm and secure.  It had room to play, and dinners in the kitchen.  My sister and I used to dance in our bedroom and do cartwheels in the front yard.  I remember cuddling on the couch with my mom and chasing my dad as he cut the grass.   

That little white house was a sanctuary to me, perhaps to my sister.  I have many memories of this house on McKinley.  But in the latter part of my time there, things weren’t so good.  Fighting, screaming.  Kicking, punching.  Blood shed and tears.  But until I was about 10, this place had been home.  It is the only place, until now, that I considered my home. 

After my mother, sister and I moved from the house on McKinley, no other dwelling has felt the same.  The sense of security, the sense of ‘family’ has never returned.   

So the question I am asking myself today, is whether my current residence on Front Street is my home?   I wonder when I’ll figure out the answer…

I feel like there is a wall.  All wall between me and my words.  A wall between me and my emotions.  A wall between me and my family.  A wall between me and my husband.  I also feel like I am the one putting the plaster between the bricks.  I have been isolating myself since my father’s death…I’ve been secluding myself.  I go through my days at work without a problem, but I have given up my loves, my passions.  I no longer paint.  I no longer read.  I barely nurture my relationships.    I am so forgetful and chaotic.  I’ve been overeating and underactive.  I’ve been going to bed early and getting up late.  I’ve been forgetful and lazy. 

I need to break down these ‘walls’ and I need to free myself from these chains.  I do not like the person I have become.  I feel very lonely in this square of bricks I’ve built around myself. 

“I just feel like you love me because you have to. Like, I make it sooo hard for you to love me.”

These are the last words in an email that my sister sent me after a lengthy argument yesterday.  Email arguments take finesse, which apparently I am lacking.  I am a person who likes to stew over words.  Choose them wisely.  Be sure of definitions and meanings.  When in an email argument, there is not time for investigation.  So, this conversation she and I had was not pleasant, but all in all, it could have been worse.  The disagreement ended just as fast as it began.

Her words stung me.  I find myself staring at these words she typed and sent to me.  These words are brutal.  Do I really portray these emotions with my actions, words?  I must if she feels this way.  How awful?   She thinks I hate her…She thinks she makes it sooo difficult for me to love her. I don’t know how to even start to heal this relationship.  I’m afraid though, if she and I weren’t sisters, she would not be a friend I would choose.  She is right.  I am ashamed for allowing myself to judge someone so harshly, especially someone whom I love.  I do judge her.  Her job, her mothering skills, her actions, emotions, her boyfriends, her choices.  I know that is why these words are lingering…remorse, regret.  That is why these words are going to haunt me for days to come, months to come.

I just hope that one day, she and I can be sisters.  True sisters.  Share memories, share recipes and share wisdom.  I want to be able to rejoice in our similarities and laugh at our differences. 

Fate has connected me with a special person recently.  I have never met her, but I know of her story.  LS is what I will call her.  She knows who she is.  LS has inspired me to heal.  Heal from my father’s death.  Heal from my broken relationships.  Write to heal. So here I am.  Where to start?  What to write?  I’ve very defensive, very nervous to let the world in.  So my blogs will get bolder with time.  Slowly I will trust enough to let people in.  The past has proven to me not to trust.  No one knows about this blog but you and I.  I fear the judgement of the world…of my family.  I went out on a limb connecting with LS.  But through the love she has for her son, I let her in.  Not all the way, but I cracked my shell.

 It’s funny.  I don’t trust my family, yet I trust a stranger with details of my being.  So I hope I can make LS proud.  Her words to me are powerful…they are words of hope.  Words of encouragement.  Thank you LS for helping me heal.

We are alone at last.  Standing by your side in this oversized room, I feel so small, so confused.  The room is an uncomfortable degree of temperature.  A few notches less and I do believe I could see my breath.   

You lay there silently, as I approach you.  Your skin is flawless and your expression dull.  I can’t see your body because it is wrapped under a clean, white sheet.   

As I lean over you, I bend at my waist being careful not to bump into you.  I gently stroke your hair.  It is a dull shade of blonde, very soft and fine.  My heart begins to pain as I stare at your face.  Your features are like plastic.  The way your head is positioned, your mouth hangs open slightly.  My hand travels from the top of your forehead, near your hairline to your cheek.  I place the top of my fingers against your cheek.  Your face is like ice and I feel the cold travel up my arm.  Pulling my hand away quickly, I know that I will never forget that unbearable touch.  I place my nose close to you and take a deep breath.  I try to remember your smell, because it is no longer present.  Your essence and core have disappeared.   

I stare at you.  I look at the details of your face…your thin lips, your square nose.  Your long rebellious hair and the mustache you have had since forever.  I stare through you and I think of how different things could have been.  I ache for you to wake up.   

I take a step back, soaking it all in.  This is the last time I will ever see your face.