Surging steam,
Pouring from my car.
That awful sweet stench.
My car over heated while on the way home.
Home from where?
Well, that’s a story.
I had two sisters who passed away thirty years ago this coming January.
It was a complex relationship.
We share the same father,
But we have different mothers.
With this sort of thing…
There is so much pain,
So much hurt
Our mothers, who were once friends, are no longer.
When they died, I didn’t stay in contact with their mother.
I meant to…
But the contempt and complexities,
They were just too great.
Three weeks ago, their mother contacted me.
She said, “I have some things for you.”
“Things,” she told me, “the girls would want me to have.”
Today was the day I met her.
I knew meeting with her could create conflict.
It would dredge up uncomfortable histories.
Histories that some in my family would prefer to remain untouched.
This meeting was a high wire act.
An event with multiple facets and potential pitfalls.
But the potential for healing,
And growth…
That likely wouldn’t present itself again.
We met at her home.
A house I’d been to many many times before.
But not once in thirty years.
So much had changed,
Yet this little pocket of the world was untouched by time.
Their bedrooms,
Which I knew so well,
Remained relatively unchanged.
I remembered them being so much bigger.
Memorabilia, which I recognized, hung on the wall.
Their prom pictures on the shelves.
A traumatic time capsule.
Our meeting was surreal,
As though no time had passed,
Although it had.
I was no longer a boy,
And she was no longer young.
We spoke freely.
We both shared things.
Some things she didn’t remember.
Others I didn’t know.
I expected tears,
There were none.
She was kind and generous.
She gave me pictures,
Pictures of the girls.
With me and without me.
She gave me pictures with my mom and the girls.
That surprised me.
She gave me a picture of my biological father, holding me.
This was years before anyone knew he was my father.
I left with pictures of family I’ve never met or known.
I left with their names, addresses, and phone numbers.
I left with books.
Books given to the girls by an aunt, I was long told, was not nice.
I left with a table and chairs
Made for the girls by their grandfather.
Our grandfather.
One chair,
Hand painted by my sister.
She called me family.
But not before telling me there was schizophrenia
In this new family of mine.
I left with a monstrous picture of my ex father-in-law
In a large wood frame that was 24”x 36”.
How she got that, is a whole other story.
Circular convolutions, not worth the time to tell.
That picture,
That lay atop everything in my packed car.
The weight of it all…
With my car filled with this charged memorabilia,
I drove off.
I had thought about taking pictures of their bedrooms.
I wished I had.
Yet, I was glad I resisted.
I thought about what I would do with these things.
I thought about these new family members.
What would it be like to meet them?
I thought about the consequences of choosing not to.
What would we say?
Where would I put them in this politically charged family?
In a dizzying daze, I drove.
And as often happens,
When your teetering on the edge,
You get pushed.
What a metaphor…
It was rush hour.
It was hot.
My thermostat was pushing closer to red.
The stress was building.
Then…
Steam rolled out from under my hood.
Liquid pouring to the ground
As though my car were weeping.
Weeping from this burden.
This great weight.
This horrid history.
The message was:
You’re not in control.
Stop.
With little choice,
I sat in the searing sun
Forced to sit,
I sat…
