Photo by Yves Alarie on Unsplash
The only photo I have of them is from the day they vowed, “For better or for worse,”- 1980-something.
A giant cross towers behind them, the only light in an otherwise dead landscape.
My mother wears a crown of flowers and tilts her head to the side, smiling. Her blush lips are closed. I imagine her itching and sweating in her long-sleeved, high-collared lace gown. If she is, she hides it well. Her white bouquet covers her hands with a long ribbon, a stargazer lily at her belly. She looks like an angel. She looks like me.
The man who I refuse to call my father has eyes that stare through the photographer, through time, through me, refusing to fake love.
He has my high, square forehead, but his is surrounded, by thick hair the color of fall leaves. He reminds me of a drunken Irishman, or one of those old-fashioned boardwalk photos we never got to take.
*
A memory: I hold my breath as the rusty Ford pulls up. A balding man opens the cab door. A wave of cigarette smoke and body odor knock me off my tiny feet. The man’s sleeveless shirt and cutoff jean shorts show a body weathered by late nights at the local dive.
He beckons my brother and me to follow him.
We climb into the truck. The glowing cigarette barely hangs on to the passenger’s toothless grin. I imagine the ash falling, the freedom of its escape.
I squeeze my brother’s Ice Pop covered hand and buckle him into the seat next to me. His sticky skin makes me wish I could disappear and leave nothing but a residue behind.
I notice the difference in color between our arms as I trace my moles, forming constellations.
*
Imagine: a different version of a father. One that is strong and lean, caring and calm. One that chose us. One that, when the wedding photographer asked, put his arm around my mother and smiled.
*
A memory: A fire in a pit crackles away the last drops of water trapped in kindling gathered after an evening storm. If I get too close I may crackle too. My skin is sticky with incense so pungent I can taste it. I write by the moon. My words are fireflies. Orion keeps me safe.
*
A memory: Tires screech. My mother hunched over, her back a shepherd’s hook. His strong arms, salt and pepper hair, holding her like a child. I strain my eyes through a tiny window and they disappear over the horizon.
I am certain I will never see my parents again.
*
A memory: I wake from a cocoon I have fashioned out of moth-eaten blankets. The lingering smell of smoke nauseates. Beside me, my brother’s sleeping chest rises and falls to a chorus of crickets. I lay as still as a corpse and try to sleep, but I have to pee.
I climb out of the bed of the truck and tiptoe into the forest, praying something will find and eat me. A bear would be preferable to a drunk man finding out I have ventured away from the barren spot he calls camp.
*
Somewhere, another child is waking in a tent. They are noticing the sun kissing the moon. They appreciate the glistening drops of dew.
I notice the sun hiding.
I fret over the grass wetting my shoes and socks.
*
The path I follow is littered with causalities of a summer storm. I pick up sticks as I go along. I believe I can redeem myself with the gift of kindling.
I come to an ancient stump. Violets, buttercups and ferns protrude from its sides. The stump is dead and full of life, both.
I watch the pill bugs climb in and out of the crevices. Daddy long legs and ants scurry about. I wish I could join them, but I cannot fit.
I squat behind them, and pee.
Emily Goodwin is a writer, yoga teacher and trauma therapist living in rural Virginia. Emily believes that writing can greatly impact healing, and spends much of her time exploring this relationship. Emily is a mother to two boys, three cats and a horse. She is currently working on a memoir which she hopes to publish before the end of 2023.