It was before the divorce – I know because there were no cell phones just the kitchen phone on the wall – the one with the squiggly cord.
I was at most 10. Maybe younger. I’m not sure.
But I remember being left alone from time to time when I had been in my room with no one telling me they had left.
And I’d run around the whole house, terrified that something had happened to my family.
It felt like ages. Maybe it wasn’t that long. I have no idea.
Maybe my parents were only concerned that it was a safe neighborhood, that I wasn’t stupid. I’d live. I think it was just my father but I’m not sure the memory is old- my mother worked so much back then she wasn’t home much anyway.
But when he came back I’d be in tears. Falling to the ground. Terrified something had happened to him. And he’d think I was worried about myself.
Why are you worried? The neighborhood is safe. You’re safe.
It wasn’t said with comfort or a hug. He didn’t try to make me stop crying.
They never understood I didn’t care about myself – I knew I was fine. I was afraid of something happening to them. Being hurt or dead or abandoning me.
I still search the apartment every time I wake up and my husband isn’t home and I’m not sure where he is.
But he hugs me. I tell him I love him.
He was the first person to ever hold me as I cried, and cry with me.
We are meant to feel.
We are meant to share the burden.
I’m certain my parents never held each other and cried together.
I saw my father cry so few times.
I saw my mother cry so few times.
They didn’t understand their child could love them more than she loved herself until she couldn’t anymore.
But I still search the apartment until he comes back and think of those days running through the whole house looking for them and crumpling to a tiny little ball next to the back door in tears, praying to God, that they were ok.
Laughs and Lobotomies 