6:41 p.m. - 2005-06-16
Aftermath Rant
One thing I knew for sure was that nothing would ever be the same. How could it be? Once the angel of death had brushed against the very edges of our lives, how could we pretend? A stone had been flung by God Himself into the still waters of our safe family. All that was hidden stirred just below the surface, waiting to be sorted in the light. Anticipation gripped me. I longed for the treasures entangled in the mossy dregs. I was ready. I had been waiting all my life to know these two whose love had resulted in me. But the day my mother was scheduled to leave the hospital, my father was afraid. Afraid that he would not know what to do to care for her. Afraid that her impression on the bed that had closed like a wound in her absence might open again only to invite the agony of further loss. Afraid. And when my father was afraid, he made himself brittle. He stiffened his gait. His face was chiseled marble, cold and impersonal. He thought in mechanical terms. The field of emotions, replete with explosives, must be carefully navigated. Better still, avoided altogether. And my mother dutifully complied, assuaging his fears by making believe that the magic circle remained intact as before. So I became the bearer of bad news, the unwelcome reminder of unspeakable things, the kid in the crowd at the emperor's parade. Conspicuously out of step, disturbing the status quo with my clumsy awe. Still, having caught a glimpse of the one who had communed with God there in that white room, I could not avert my gaze. I longed to know her. I longed for her to know me. Surely, this familial sacrament had changed the core of her as it had us all. Arriving home, however, the armour that had held her tightly throughout this fight fell away like layers of a dream at the approach of dawn. Every denied emotion would have its say. And although I am now convinced that it was nothing less than my divine assignment, something in me instinctively braced like an scratchy overcoat. Bewildered and fatigued, I finally succumbed to the cold that was her rage. And as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Limp and weary, she expressed her sorrow for having hurt me. Over and over and over. I knew she hadn't meant to. I was the just the chosen vessel to hold for a moment the contents of her broken heart. It was a language I had spoken since childhood. No one could account for my fluency in solace. Still, as I found myself sobbing with relief for the woman in my arms, at the same time there was a measure of grief for the stillborn one lost to me forever. And so we resumed our respective roles, masks firmly in place. One thing I knew for sure, though, was that nothing would ever be the same. And, try as we all may have done, it was not.
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