The Orb
By Monica Gillespie
 

My grandparents never played the role of traditional grandparents. Little shocked them and they were open to letting us figure out life’s lessons without interference. It wasn’t until I was married that I experienced a vacation without all the extended family in tow. Growing up, vacations were memories of us all traveling to our destination caravan style and coexisting in the tightest of quarters once we arrived. During the prime of my teenage years granddaddy and grandma had settled the family into two campers at a campground surrounded by a lake. They even welcomed all of mine and my cousin’s friends. It wasn’t unusual to have a group of 6-10 teenagers on any given weekend the summer before my graduation.

Those vacations and the welcoming spirit of my family is what I feel defines us. It took me a long time to understand the dynamics of nuclear and extended family in school – I only knew the fellowship of many. To define family meant my grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles – not just my mom, dad and me. I found it bizarre that people made distinctions between the members of their families.

Granddaddy has had diabetes his entire adult life, and now his body is too weak to fight the effects of the disease. When I visit on Sunday he is in good spirits, but it is clear there is little fuel left in his body. Grandma says in the past three days he’s only gotten up to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to remember him like that, I want to remember his spirit. The one that always seemed to know what we crazy teenagers were up to when we thought we pulled the wool firmly over all adults’ eyes. Yet, in his knowing he never revealed or placed shame or guilt upon us.

A couple of months ago my cousins, Mary, Dori and I met for lunch and drinks on a quiet fall Saturday afternoon. In the midst of children and husbands we find it difficult to stay connected and share time together. As children and teenagers we were inseparable and traveled in all the same circles. None of us would have ever imagined that our adult lives would be so disconnected. On these rare opportunities to unite it is often me who prompts stories of days past. While they both seemed to enjoy them, I am the one who clings to the memories for a deeper understanding of myself and my life.

“Did ya’ll know granddaddy had an affair?” Dori asked, as calmly as if she were asking if we had seen a recent blockbuster.

Gulping down the swallow of beer I had just taken I stared at her blankly. We all knew that grandma had an affair and her youngest son was the tangible result. As far as family secrets go, that is our biggest. The family is divided by those that know and those who don’t. No one really knows if our youngest uncle Jake knows the truth about his biological father. It isn’t talked about beyond closed doors. But there has never been mention of granddaddy being unfaithful to the woman who stood by his side through decades of violent drinking, a raging temper and fleeting employment.

“What?!?” Mary gasped.

“Yep, he and I were drinking one night in Alabama at the reunion and he told me about it. He had a 7 year affair with a woman and grandma’s affair was to get back at him. He loved her. He would have left grandma, but the woman wouldn’t leave her husband, who was rich.”

Grandma’s affair had always been discussed in terms of our uncle being a lifelong reminder of the deception. Maybe it was because of that I viewed this news differently, more romantically. At this point in my life, at 34 years old, I have begun to have a deep appreciation for those who find the ability to live their lives full of passion. Not just romantic passion, but a zest for life that enables one to face the challenges more gracefully than those who don’t. Part of me knows this appreciation is rooted in the heart of my family. Who am I to question how anyone gives way to the passion they feel for any person, place or object? I can’t.

“Really. Well, I guess that isn’t surprising. I mean think about it, they got married when they were 16, weren’t they bound to meet companions who would challenge that young love. The important thing is that they were able to stay together and build such a strong family. In fact, I would love for Granddaddy to tell me the whole story of his affair. I think it would open up a connection to him I would appreciate.” I answered.

They both looked at me, absorbing the perspective I had shared. I assumed they agreed. We didn’t say anything else about it and moved on to the next story, the next memory. But later that week I called my mom and asked her if she knew about it. She didn’t. It suddenly struck me that the secrecy of his affair with this woman in the midst of a family who never held back said something about what it had meant to him. Without question, I knew that he had loved her and always held a place in his heart for her. Mentioning her to Dori after so many years signaled to me that she still entered his thoughts. But I also knew he loved grandma. Recently I had learned that a person’s heart is capable of many romantic loves, but each of them different. Hearing of granddaddy’s affair confirmed my suspicion that those who only loved one person their entire lives were an anomaly, not the norm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Most events in life occur when you least expect them. So I am unprepared when I receive a Facebook request from a childhood friend I haven’t seen in over 13 years, Christian Blake.

“Christian Blake” (Westbend, GA) Confirm or Accept?

His name has not entered my consciousness since marrying Joseph. I am eager to read his profile and see how time and life had changed him, if at all. I clicked confirm.

Feeling the internal pull to know about his life, I Look at his online pictures and am left with mixed emotions. It is strange to see him with a wife and daughter. To me he should still be the way I remember him. I want to know more about his life and to also see what he remembered of the one we shared. I compose him a simple email telling him that I was doing well and hoped he was too and that the years since we last spoke had treated him well.

What I find in his response and those that follow is how he has grown into a tremendous man, has beat the odds and found success. Still, I long for deeper connection and dialogue with this person who was such a part of my life for so many years.

Perhaps my greatest motivation in talking with Christian in the midst of also trying to work on a marriage on life support, is to set the story straight. I want and need Christian to know how bad he hurt me, how his coldness towards me had frozen my ability to walk away. How I had cared so deeply and never felt that return of affection. How his betrayal and abandonment had shaped who I had become as an adult, more than I ever realized before.

As we begin to email regularly I learn that his feelings for me as we were growing up were not the same as mine for him. His love for me was more platonic, and became complicated by the internal pull that made it physical. Christian has very different memories of our relationship.

His apology comes one night as we are exchanging emails and I relive the darker side of our memories. I don’t think it’s was fair that he remembers a fairytale and I remember a nightmare. Yes, we and all of our friends had great times and learned what it meant to be part of an orb. Many would be envious of the childhood we shared. But behind the curtain of the moon that shone upon our naked bodies so many nights, there was also the demon of our past.

Christian admits his selfishness and self-absorbed nature during that time and apologizes deeply for being so cold to me. As I have imagined, he didn’t know the demon was there. Or at least he says he didn’t. He says that he loved me but that he didn’t know how to treat anyone back then or how to express himself. That much I believe.

The words are comforting, yet vacant. I want more, to look into his eyes and see if I find the accompanying feelings there. In his presence will I still be hypnotized by his hand upon me? Will we still dance around the chemistry between us in the light of day only to succumb to it in the shadows of the night? Will I finally find compassion in his embrace?

More than the boy next door and the object of my affection, Christian was also a part of our family in many ways. Because he was also best friends with my cousin, James, he often was part of the scenery at family dinners, vacations and there were few time he wasn’t present at the communal campground we inhibited that summer before graduation.

I find myself leaning on Christian to remember with me the spirited man I knew granddaddy was. As granddaddy continues to become less of the strength of a man I knew, I write to Christian and urge him to remember funny stories of times at the lake and through the years.

Granddaddy had once caught us smoking pot. He walked around the corner of the camper, witnessed our circle of indiscretion and looked us each in the eye. He walked past. Words were not necessary, the authority and warning in his eyes were all we needed to put it away and head back into the water.

Two days later, Granddaddy rode with Christian and me to the store.

“I know what you kids are doing. I’ve tried pot, didn’t like it.”

I was driving and exchanged a knowing glance with Christian through the rear view mirror.

“I’d much rather have my whisky here, but if it’s what you kids like, I can’t judge. But be careful, don’t let it get you in trouble. It will get you in trouble if you aren’t careful.”

Again, Christian and I exchanged glances and a smile. It was as close to a lecture as we were going to get from Granddaddy. Or so we thought.

“And, Christian, if you get this here girl pregnant, I’m gonna cut off your dick.”

Then the glance we shared didn’t have any hints of laughter, simply fear and shame – we were exposed. Our physical relationship that we thought was so private, such a mystery to even us, was crystal clear to my wise grandfather.

Christian remembers Granddaddy’s warning just as I do. I want to remember Granddaddy just as he had been that summer, not as just a host to his feeble body as I see him now. Being a father of a young girl, Christian now understands my grandfather’s warning and protective spirit. He admits that if his daughter was found with anyone like he was in those days he wouldn’t be as tolerant as any of my family had been.

Expressing his feelings is still not something that comes easily to Christian. It is through periodic glimpses into his heart, like that of the protection of his daughter, that I find some glimmer of sensitivity that I always sought from him, but never found.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello,” I stumble to the phone, emerging from the shower. It is 6:30 am and I know calls at that time are never positive.

“Loni, it’s your daddy.” My heart falls to the wet floor. I can almost feel it become one with the water that drips from my body. I don’t know what is wrong, but his voice makes it clear that bad news will follow. Really bad news.

“Your granddaddy passed away, this morning, Loni. Your grandmother went to get him up and he didn’t wake up. He died in his sleep.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour. I love you.” That is the only response I can deliver. I have been lucky and not lived a life void of extreme trauma or death. I don’t know how to feel yet.

I crawl back under the covers and wrap my husband’s sleeping arms around me. “Granddaddy died.” I whisper. He holds me tighter and starts crying with me. Already I am looking to him to be the raft that holds me afloat through the next few days.

When I think of my own death I often think I want my friends to throw an enormous party and talk about our time together. I want people to dance and sing and listen to all of my favorite songs. And other times I think it would be best to be quietly placed in the ground, to live forever in their memories. Granddaddy’s funeral is a little mixture of both, as traditional Southern ones are. They become part family reunion and part opportunity to grieve.

In the receiving line at the funeral home, I am numb to all of the introductions, to people who haven’t seen me since I was “this tall.” I sigh with relief when I am able to find comfort in a familiar face or embrace among the sea of strangers. Dori and Mary have been that and we seldom leave each others sides, reaching out for a hand during a sudden moment of weakness.

So when Christian appears in the doorway, I think we are all grateful for the ease at which we can hold hands and steady ourselves. Christian was part of all of our pasts. For Dori and me he was our first crush and ultimately our first love. One boy who was an earthquake of emotion upon our young hearts and could have easily divided us.

It feels as though the sea parts as he progresses towards us. We all look at each other, no one speaking, and fall into each others arms. After 15 years of living our lives separately, the orb we once knew embraces us. I’m not sure how long we stay in our circular embrace, sharing our tears and warmth. It feels like a long time, maybe it isn’t.

When we pull apart, I glance up to meet the eyes I know are glaring upon me. Joseph, across the room leaning down drawing with our son, looks to me with a mixture of anger and pain. I imagine the anger is that Christian has shown up and the pain is from the visible comfort I find in the group’s united embrace. All a reminder of the world he deliberately extracted me from so many years ago.

Christian chats with Dori and Mary and shares pictures of his wife and daughter. Having been in such close contact with recently, I am content in letting them have their time, to not jeopardize these reuniting moments. I linger in the background and continue greeting visitors coming to mourn the loss of my granddaddy.

The next time I notice Christian’s presence at the funeral is when I see him hugging and consoling my grandmother. I immediately think of Joseph and scan the room to find him and the children sitting in a corner of the flower-filled space. The anxiety that comes next is overwhelming. In the midst of my sadness and emotions, I don’t know if I can navigate Joseph’s reaction to what I cannot control. If we speak nothing of it, the fact that Christian is here will linger between us. If he mentions it I will be resentful that he can focus on something such as that during this time when I am distraught with loss and worry about my grandmother and mother.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at my grandparents house, the weight of granddaddy’s absence is heavy. He isn’t stretched upon the couch sleeping off the fried chicken he ate or cheering for a kiss on the cheek from one of the toddlers that roam about. Dori, Mary, our other cousins and I retreat to activities we would have had as children. We congregate together, away from the crowd, absorbed in our secrets. Had the situation been different, and I not so consumed in doing what I can to ease the pain, I might have been more sensitive to Joseph’s reactions to my behavior. I have left the care of our children completely up to him, and I am not being the wife he thinks I should be in this situation. This much I know. He can’t articulate it, but I am positive he feels we should be leaning solely on each other and our children right now. But I can’t. I long to feel like a child myself, to rekindle the bond we have as siblings and cousins in our tight knit, and sometimes, dysfunctional family.

Somewhere in the midst of our reminiscing and sharing of secrets we all decide it would be fun, healing and comforting to ask grandma if we can all stay there for the night. A sleepover reminiscent of those we had as children. I don’t ponder Joseph’s opinion or acceptance to this arrangement.

“Sweetie, we’re all going to stay here with grandma tonight. She can’t be alone and we think having us all here will help her get some rest.”

After a pause and then a deep breath, undoubtedly trying to stay calm and focused, he retreats with “Okay, if that’s what you want to do. I’ll call mama and have her keep the kids.”

There is no way for me to explain that he isn’t invited, that it will just be the grandchildren. He won’t understand, will take it as personal abandonment.

“No, I think it would be better if you stayed with the kids. They are going to be pretty upset about me not coming home. Staying with your mom will only lead to greater confusion for them.” I try.

“But I don’t want you to be alone, I want to be here for you.”

Closing the space between us, I rest my head on his chest and lean upon my wall of support. “You are always here for me, sweetie. But grandma needs me tonight. And my cousins.”

He kisses the top of my head and I pray that he will find the ability to understand.

As the house clears, we create the surroundings for a night of memories. We setup the TV and VCR in grandma’s bedroom and move two recliners on either side of her bed. Dori has gone to the store and bought popcorn, brownies, beer, wine, and macaroni and cheese (the ultimate comfort food). There are five of us staying and we have gathered all the videos and pictures we can find. The stories are in our hearts and will flow without prompting.

If love could be something tangible it would be a blanket thrown upon us in that room. Words cannot describe the joy, solace and love that is present in that room as we remember not only our grandfather, but also the ties that bind us together.

When we pop in the last video, I take an extra breath as it begins to play. It is of the lake, the summer before graduation. The camera circles the faces of the crowd, of the adjacent two campers and the lot between them. My best friend, Anna Lisa, is braiding my hair. Dori is napping, stretched out on the bare wood of the deck, sun in her face, reflecting off her blond curls. Mary and our other cousin James are playing cards… with Christian. There he is. The memories that had been only committed to words over the last few months are before me in their animated glory. The night that video was taken I remember he and I sneaking off to the paddle boats as the band was playing under the picnic shelter. My memory is interrupted when Dori suddenly has a story of her own to relive.

“Grandma, remember that night in the camper when we asked you if you and granddaddy still had sex?”

Grandma’s face turns the same color of crimson as it had that night.

“Yeessss, I remember. Granddaddy laughed about that for weeks. What did we say, I don’t remember?”

“You said yes, just not with each other!,” I remind her. And we all start laughing. Granddaddy was always such a joker. But even then we knew the lack of denial from either of them meant they still very enjoyed each others bodies.

“Did ya’ll ever stop having sex?, “ Dori presses on.

“I’m not going to tell you that!”

“Come on, Granddaddy would tell us!”

“Yeah, Grandma, we’re adults and we look up to the lasting relationship you and Granddaddy had. It would be encouraging for us to know that the intimacy survived so many years,” I encourage. And I mean what I say. We all know that Grandma and Granddaddy had their trials, pregnant affairs and drunken battles. But we also know they survived. They had survived together. All that happened in between the beginning and today was part of the story, not the end. The story of their love was one I had reflected on frequently in the past few years as I worked to define and strengthen my own marriage.

“Okay, yes… we did as much as we could until Granddaddy didn’t have the strength, which was only a few months ago,” Grandma says softly.

I contemplate what the last days of their making love must have been like. Did they know they were coming to an end? Was it romantic? I can’t prod for answers, those are Grandma’s special memories and I don’t want to intrude on what they shared.

James’ phone buzzes in his pocket as we are picking up the debris of our floor and bed picnics and tucking grandma in for the night. He goes outside to take the call, smoke a cigarette and finish off his beer.

I fix Gran a final cup of coffee with a splash of Bailey’s Irish Crème and pull the covers up below her chin. I prop the biggest picture of Granddaddy I can find in the vacant side of the bed.

“Gran, I just want you to know that if you want to come and stay with Joseph and me for while we would love to have you. I don’t think it would be good for you to be alone right away, perhaps you could ease into it. You can stay some with me, then Mary, each of us, and only stay at home a couple of nights here and there until you are comfortable.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” is all she says before rolling over to find sleep and Granddaddy in her dreams.

I walk into the kitchen, pour another glass of wine and grab the pack of cigarettes out of my purse. I know I will welcome this occasional habit I have tonight. Entering the front room of the old farmhouse I hear voices talking over one another on the porch, voices that have serenaded my spirit all night, with the exception of one.

“Hey, Loni. How are you holding up?” Christian greets me with a warm smile. He is relaxed in the porch swing, with his arms spanning the length of the arm and the back, a bottle of water resting between his legs. I notice his keys bulging from his pocket and feel as though the clock has turned back to the day we were sixteen. He always had a miniature set of nail clippers on his key ring. Are they there in his pocket or has that obsession lapsed with adulthood?

The porch is reminiscent of so many nights we spent there. James has even turned the radio on in his car to provide a soundtrack to the conversation. The only difference is the lines in our faces, the thinning of our hair and the years that have passed between us and apart. And Dori. Her need to be accepted by us all and adored by Christian isn’t there in her stance, her actions, her eyes. She seems to possess what I do not, the ability to let the past be just a vacant memory. I envy that.

“Loni, you kinda look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Dori interrupts my thoughts.

“I, uh, just wasn’t expecting you, Christian. I guess I was shocked to see you.”

His smile takes on that possessive, yet charming nature as he speaks. That exact look made me loose all sense of reason from the time I was 7 years old. Am I strong enough to resist its power now? Only the passing of this night will tell.

“Well, James and I talked at the funeral home and he told me you were keeping Grandma company tonight. It just seemed too perfect of an opportunity for us to hang out.”

“Does anyone even remember the last time we were all together?,” questions James.

“You know I do, I remember everything. The last time was our Christmas party the Christmas after graduation. Although I didn’t stay long, Joseph was uncomfortable. And, of course, the time before that was at the beach.”

With my prompt, they jump into their vivid memories of the days of the orb that I had broken free from. I partly listen, but mostly gaze at the stars with hopes that their sparkle will calm the feelings that are welling up inside me. On more than one occasion Christian and I exchange lingering, knowing glances across a beam of light from the street lamp. I can still read those glances, can still feel the energy between us. Without saying a word, we both know that we will not end the night with everyone else.

As my mind registers what is happening and what is to come, the darker side of it all is also present. If our minds were a book, if the thoughts could be viewed through the abstracts of black and white photography or from the fluid art of words, what one will see in my gallery and in Christian’s is very different.

My fairytale never got its happy ending and his one fantasy has never been fulfilled. If I walk along the creek bed with him after we say goodnight to the others, will I find deep conversation, lingering embraces and exploration of each others bodies? That would be my happy ending, to receive the warmth and affection from him that I had always craved and sought.

But as much as I don’t want to believe it, I also know his fantasy will be complete, his desire relinquished if Dori is there too. His ultimate fantasy is to experience me and Dori together. To drink in the passion we both possess, the love for him. As a man who loves everything about a woman and who is always intrigued by our depth, this would make him whole.

I will never let that happen. I say a silent prayer of gratitude that I have grown enough to honor this boundary.

Dori is the first one to glance at her watch and point out that it is three in the morning, breaking up our reverie.

“Christian, are you staying at a hotel, or do you need to stay here with us?,” I question, always the life sized guardian angel of our group.

Damn, there is that smile. “I’m not 16 anymore, I can actually afford a hotel room! A nice one, too. I’m staying at the Embassy. Looking forward to that breakfast in the morning, well in a few hours.”

“You’re right, I guess tonight was so much like old times that I did forget how old we all were!”

We begin circling with hugs and I throw out my arms to bring everyone into the circling embrace we shared at the funeral home. We tremble into each others shoulders as the tears come. We are crying for the sorrow of our mistakes, tears of thanksgiving that we have each other, the energy of this house, grief for Grandma and Granddaddy, and joy that we have gotten to spend this night as one after so many years apart.

“Goodnight. I’ll see ya’ll tomorrow at the funeral.” And just like that Christian walks across the driveway and gets into his car. I don’t wait to watch him pull away and I don’t turn back. If I allow myself to do any of those things, the tears I will shed will be of heartache…for what was, what is, and what will never be.

I empty the bottle of Riesling into my glass and settle into Granddaddy’s recliner. His smell is still present on the fabric and it embraces me. Oddly, a strong element of his smell is that of hairspray. Gran was always on him about his unruly hair and kept him well stocked in Aqua Net. To my left is the very couch he laid upon when Dori and I were 5 and 7 years old, when he would let us brush his hair, even put curlers in until he was sound asleep and oblivious to our masterpiece.

Chuckling to myself I hear a tap at the window and am so startled I spill the wine into my lap. Once my heart resumes its normal pace, I realize I don’t need to get up to know who’s waiting, lingering, longing on the other side.

Christian leans against the ancient oil tank, it’s belly once the source of comforting heat. He is holding flowers that he undoubtedly “borrowed” from the cemetery down the street. I nod for him to meet me at the back door.

“Were you just tapping on windows and hoping for the best, or did you truly mean to find me

?”

“Loni, that’s not fair.”

“Why isn’t it Christian? You have never, in all that’s been said and done, told me that I have a greater place in your heart than Dori. Even now you talk of your sexual fantasies involving the two of us. You still say all the right things to me to try and get that next blow job. You still don’t care about me, at least not the way I care about you. It’s hopeless. What do you want? You want to go down to the creek bed and have me straddle you on the bench? Well, tell me something… what would happen after you came inside of me after it’s taken me 15 years to rid my body and my soul of your poison? Would you hold me until the sun came up? Would you tell me your fears and dreams as I have told you mine? What?”

While I feel all of this, I don’t know where the strength to face this reality with him is coming from. Or maybe I do, my grandfather was the strongest man I knew.

Christian hangs his head and drops the flowers to his side.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say. Everything you said is true. For our whole lives, I’ve taken advantage of you. I knew what I was doing was wrong from the moment we first kissed. It’s not that I don’t care about you. Oh God, I do! When I say that you have always been like my sister and best friend, I mean that. I was always so proud of you and how smart and talented you were, it was hard for me not to brag when your name came up back then. I still have that pride. When I see your pictures, your art, your accomplishments displayed on Facebook, I want to shout ‘That’s my girl – the smartest woman I know. Isn’t she great?!’ It’s just, my love isn’t the same as yours.”

I slide to the ground, no longer trusting that the Earth will hold steady beneath my feet. Isn’t this the conversation, or at least the dialogue, I have been seeking, to know the truth? There is a lump of pain in my throat. But I am surprised to realize what I am feeling is closer to relief than anything else. When I finally open my eyes and lift my head Christian’s hand is outstretched before me. He pulls me up and into his arms. My tears flow onto his shirt, my nose runs and my shoulders heave under the weight of his arms. Christian Blake is stroking my hair, rubbing my back and whispering into my ear “I do love you, buddy. Please know that.” I cry for a long time before he slides his hand into mine and leads me down to the creek bed.

“Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” He returns with two blankets, a radio and thermos of coffee.

“I see you had a plan.”

“Let’s not talk about that. No more seduction. Ever.”

“Deal.”

He spreads the blankets and lays back, extending his arm for me to rest in the crook. We gaze up at the sky and imagine ourselves weaving through the maze of the sky.

“Tell me about your life, Christian. I think I can listen now.”

Until we succumb to sleep we tell stories, not of our past, but uplifting stories about who we are today. When I wake late the next morning, the humid heat sticks to my skin, Christian is beside me. He has held me all night. It’s all I ever wanted.

Now I know what else I want.

My marriage has always made me feel closer to my grandparents. Somehow I have always felt mine and Joseph’s marriage mirrors their long lasting love. Perhaps it is because I know the road was not always smooth for them either. But it is also because Granddaddy always showed a favoritism for Joseph, loved him as his own. With them as my leading examples I know I have to take every necessary step to save my marriage. More than anything, I know I want to have a home for my children and grandchildren to come to – always- and I know that I want to grow old surrounded by the family I created. For that vision and dream to come true I need Joseph by my side.

Perhaps I had to come to terms with the role Christian played in my life to focus on my future. In many ways last night shut the door on my childhood and opened the double doors to my life as an adult. An emotional adult.

As Christian pulls out of the driveway I look heavenward and feel the rays of sunshine upon my face. “I love you paw paw.” I say quietly. I can see his wink and feel his embrace when I close my eyes. Retreating inside, where everyone is still asleep, I settle into his recliner. I wonder how long his smell will remain here and almost get up, so as to not quicken its demise.

Family is the true orb of our existence. For most of us, our children, our grandchildren and beyond are our opportunities to leave behind nuggets of ourselves. It is doubtful that granddaddy knew that his second born granddaughter was so deeply immersed in her connection to him and their shared passion and ability to love unconditionally. We never had deep conversations, what I know of him was mostly through stories and quiet observation. But somehow I know that he quietly understood and also recognized the similarities we shared. Sitting in his chair I can hear his wisdom and understanding in the same way he shared it in the car that day with Christian and me.

“Little girl, sometimes you can’t control where your heart goes. Be thankful it is large enough to hold all the love you possess. Lord knows I never did like that little prick, Christian, but one cannot judge the love of another. But, Joseph, he’s a damn good man. Don’t forget that. You know what is important dear. You know what to do with your love for both of these men.”

I do. Rising from his chair, I go get the others up, stopping first by grandma’s bed and kissing his picture that rests beside her.

Walking into the funeral home and witnessing the family that has been brought together during this time of sadness fills me with love and hope greater than I have ever experienced. Fortunate are those that can know there is always a net into which you can fall and a hand of guidance that can be found within the arms of your family.

Taking Joseph’s hand, I lead him to edge of the parking lot. His eyes portray heavy emotions. They are filled with the sadness of the loss of a man he admired, and fear that his own family is outside of his grasp.

“I love you to the moon and back, Joseph Rearden, and I can’t wait to grow old with you just as grandma and granddaddy did.” I kiss him with all the passion that lives inside me. When we break from our embrace I notice the faraway glances of my parents, grandma, Dori, Mary… and Christian, who grins and lowers his head as he descends into his car and drives away.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.01.2010

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