cheese cake factory-you suck.

Whenever I get mail from home I feel a tingle in my tummy. If I were a superstitious person I'd do a little jig before tearing open the envelope. I'm not, so instead I sit myself down and look over the curve and curl of letters that resemble my own.

My mom writes more often when things are bad. I should learn to consider it a blessing when I don't get mail for weeks at a time because it means things are ok. Or in extreme cases the lack of mail means something has gone VERY wrong and no one wants me to know because they fear my response. If it is the second case, I usually find out one way or another. Gossip is an unavoidable current in the pond back home.

But when the letters are thick, I am sometimes afraid.
Afraid of what they might say. Afraid of the terror it may reveal. Afraid that the poverty I ran blindly in the dark from will wrap it's paws around my throat and pull me close so it can suck the color from my hair.

Sometimes the thickness turns out to be drawing from my little brother, or notes from him about basketball, scooters and school.

This time the letter had parts of both. Grades from my little brother. Good grades. Similar to my grades. (Who needs math?) A note from his teacher about his reading progress. He apparently enjoys reading. There is a 50% chance in my family that you will learn to read well.

Were there a reading club in my family I would induct him and bestow all honors. In other words, he could look forward to me mailing him shoeboxes of recent fiction that I've just devoured. In a few years maybe--when he learns to appreciate stories about witches, working moms and crazy people with afflictions for sweets.

The other parts, terror. Unspeakable things that are common to dysfunction. And no matter how many times I read about the same things-my response is always the same. Anger, fear and pain. Were I am screamer, I would run up and down the street of my complex pulling at my ears yelling. Were I a lush, I'd buy a bottle of Jack Daniels and drink it, up, in a glass with a twist. Since I am neither of these things, I sit there stunned. Accepting for all two moments. Then like a tidal wave my face reddens and I cry. Hot wet overwhelming tears.

And Super J. is there. Trying to hold in his anger. Trying to understand it all. Trying to support me when I can't stand to be touched.

I feel alone.
I feel small.

But I'm neither. And he continues to listen as I struggle to push the words out of my mouth. As my heart burns and beats too big for my chest & my tears create red splotches all over my face.

And I know no matter how hard it gets he'll be there to tell me that I am ok. That no matter what happens I will be ok. Even though I already know this, it's nice to have someone tell me. And he sighs as he pats my arm and rubs my back.

In these moments I realize how lucky I am to have him.
To see him every day. To get mad at him for forgetting to put left overs in the fridge. To be a grump at him because he has splashed all over the counter top and I've leaned into the water and gotten my shirt or pants wet. To listen to another one of his tales about his latest research topic-cars, tires, & policies. To listen to his tales about growing up on the, "mean streets of Oracle", as if it were a city in the Land of Oz. To hear him talk to Bo and pet her chubby grey head.

And I realize how wonderful he'll be as a dad when we both get mild food poisoning and he is hovering over me with a spoonful of pepto bismal asking if I need anything & I want to tell him, "I need you." But he already knows about my needs, because who else would let me record every episode of Gilmore Girls and leave them on the machine wasting storage space that could be used to save episodes of South Park, Reno 911 or Highlander.

And family? Well, that's just something I deal with moment by moment & fill my plate with hope-because sometimes that's the most I can do.

posted by Danna Saunders @ 11/20/2004 08:41:00 AM