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lyricalechoes"Mom, what is this? When did you ever travel to Michigan?"
"What do you mean? Let me look."
Mom and I were sorting out her home. So many decades here but, finally, after much talking and hinting, she also realized she couldn't live here anymore.
There were boxes and boxes and boxes of papers. I don't think she had ever thrown anything away. Instead, she boxed up her memories and put them in the attic.
"This ... this was my "just in case." I didn't know I still had it." I could see a tear form in the corner of her eye.
"Just in case?" Why would see need directions to Michigan 'just in case'?"
"You see, well, you know how your brother is on the autistic scale? Well, your dad probably was too. Our first years of marriage were difficult, really, really ... Let's just say, it wasn't easy. He didn't know how to treat a woman. It was really hard. I had a friend back in Michigan. Sometimes I would talk to her, cry to her. She said ... "
Mom's eyes looked far away as a tear coasted down her cheek. In a way, I wanted to hear about this but, in a way, I wanted to believe my parents were happy together.
" ... anyways, she said, that if I ever needed to, I could drive back to her house. I used to carry the directions around, just in case. I never left. We were married until your dad died. But just having them there, in my purse ... it helped."
She looked at me. "Oh Honey. We learned. We had some happy times. It was just hard for awhile." She reached to hug me and reluctantly I moved closer.
Part of me wished I had never asked about these papers.
But then I thought of my fiancee. Paul was everything I had dreamed but, not quite perfect, not quite who I had thought I would be with.
Maybe, maybe everyone had doubts. And even with doubts, apparently a marriage can last.
"OK, well, is this a good time for this box?" I said, pointing to the one labeled "Wedding Gown."
"Why not, Abigail? Why not? Now I know you won't want to wear this old thing, but, let me remind you, it was worn twice. Why, when you were little, I was in this dinner theater, about a bride. I wasn't the bride but they needed a dress so ...."
Stories, papers, imperfections. But, above all, there was still was love, or at least a belief that love would return.
Perhaps I shouldn't hold these directions against her after all. Perhaps its not what you carry with us, its where your journey ends up after all.
"What do you mean? Let me look."
Mom and I were sorting out her home. So many decades here but, finally, after much talking and hinting, she also realized she couldn't live here anymore.
There were boxes and boxes and boxes of papers. I don't think she had ever thrown anything away. Instead, she boxed up her memories and put them in the attic.
"This ... this was my "just in case." I didn't know I still had it." I could see a tear form in the corner of her eye.
"Just in case?" Why would see need directions to Michigan 'just in case'?"
"You see, well, you know how your brother is on the autistic scale? Well, your dad probably was too. Our first years of marriage were difficult, really, really ... Let's just say, it wasn't easy. He didn't know how to treat a woman. It was really hard. I had a friend back in Michigan. Sometimes I would talk to her, cry to her. She said ... "
Mom's eyes looked far away as a tear coasted down her cheek. In a way, I wanted to hear about this but, in a way, I wanted to believe my parents were happy together.
" ... anyways, she said, that if I ever needed to, I could drive back to her house. I used to carry the directions around, just in case. I never left. We were married until your dad died. But just having them there, in my purse ... it helped."
She looked at me. "Oh Honey. We learned. We had some happy times. It was just hard for awhile." She reached to hug me and reluctantly I moved closer.
Part of me wished I had never asked about these papers.
But then I thought of my fiancee. Paul was everything I had dreamed but, not quite perfect, not quite who I had thought I would be with.
Maybe, maybe everyone had doubts. And even with doubts, apparently a marriage can last.
"OK, well, is this a good time for this box?" I said, pointing to the one labeled "Wedding Gown."
"Why not, Abigail? Why not? Now I know you won't want to wear this old thing, but, let me remind you, it was worn twice. Why, when you were little, I was in this dinner theater, about a bride. I wasn't the bride but they needed a dress so ...."
Stories, papers, imperfections. But, above all, there was still was love, or at least a belief that love would return.
Perhaps I shouldn't hold these directions against her after all. Perhaps its not what you carry with us, its where your journey ends up after all.
