The Shirt of A Dead Man
9/14/08
Cumming, GA
Lake Lanier Park, On the Water
"You are wearing the shirt of a dead man. His name was Al."
That's what I want to write on the inside of all Al's shirts as I prepare them for donaiton, folding after pulling them out of the dryer, warm and anonymous. Synthetic fabrics bring an element of easy care, though the fabric I have always found to be unfriendly.
Al was a fine fellow. He loved my mom for over 30 years. My sister tells me she found love letters full of longing and desire. I remember, though it was nothing we discussed much, that all of a sudden she was seeing this short, dark-haired fellow. They worked for the same company, different offices, different states at one time or another. They would stay in motels together. My mother...imagine...shacking up with some guy in a road side. She had broken loose from my father who he was a shallow caustic pool; seething and mercurial. When she just happened to mention this new romance and a slight detail of a love life, I remember being delightfully confused. "Go mom."
Only now, really, is my mother starting to become clear to me. Now that she is dead.
Of course, my parents did us no favors by staying together as long as they did in a loveless emotionally bankrupt marriage. That's where Jaye and Joe come from: a futile misstep in a long line of stinking thinking that forms the misconception that children can save a marriage. But there they were, the two little rug rats that I fell into my life just long enough to feel imposed upon to babysit, then I split. I never let myself know them at all until later in life. It is a circle that I'm glad has come back around, but at the time they only added to my suffering. They were too young and I was too indentured to appreciate them.
So, I made my get away. Long premeditated. Too late though to prevent the near-death of my soul, where it stagnated and hovered just above flat line for more years than I care to admit. It did survive though; somehow I called upon the resources necessary to resurrect it. It hiccuped and struggled back to life. It beat erratic for the long time it took me to determine if my life was worth living. I'm not trying to be dramatic, I'm just saying that's how it felt. I'm lucky though to have have been born with joy. That is one suitcase in all this baggage I'm happy to own. Now has come the time to open each of them up to see what it is I've been hauling around all these years. It cannot be that bad and clearly now fear is the worst part of mystery. But fear is like a shadow lurking and foreboding until you throw some light on it.
Cumming, GA
Lake Lanier Park, On the Water
"You are wearing the shirt of a dead man. His name was Al."
That's what I want to write on the inside of all Al's shirts as I prepare them for donaiton, folding after pulling them out of the dryer, warm and anonymous. Synthetic fabrics bring an element of easy care, though the fabric I have always found to be unfriendly.
Al was a fine fellow. He loved my mom for over 30 years. My sister tells me she found love letters full of longing and desire. I remember, though it was nothing we discussed much, that all of a sudden she was seeing this short, dark-haired fellow. They worked for the same company, different offices, different states at one time or another. They would stay in motels together. My mother...imagine...shacking up with some guy in a road side. She had broken loose from my father who he was a shallow caustic pool; seething and mercurial. When she just happened to mention this new romance and a slight detail of a love life, I remember being delightfully confused. "Go mom."
Only now, really, is my mother starting to become clear to me. Now that she is dead.
Of course, my parents did us no favors by staying together as long as they did in a loveless emotionally bankrupt marriage. That's where Jaye and Joe come from: a futile misstep in a long line of stinking thinking that forms the misconception that children can save a marriage. But there they were, the two little rug rats that I fell into my life just long enough to feel imposed upon to babysit, then I split. I never let myself know them at all until later in life. It is a circle that I'm glad has come back around, but at the time they only added to my suffering. They were too young and I was too indentured to appreciate them.
So, I made my get away. Long premeditated. Too late though to prevent the near-death of my soul, where it stagnated and hovered just above flat line for more years than I care to admit. It did survive though; somehow I called upon the resources necessary to resurrect it. It hiccuped and struggled back to life. It beat erratic for the long time it took me to determine if my life was worth living. I'm not trying to be dramatic, I'm just saying that's how it felt. I'm lucky though to have have been born with joy. That is one suitcase in all this baggage I'm happy to own. Now has come the time to open each of them up to see what it is I've been hauling around all these years. It cannot be that bad and clearly now fear is the worst part of mystery. But fear is like a shadow lurking and foreboding until you throw some light on it.
posted by Ruby Fowler at 8:53 AM
