It's time to talk again. I see my mother as a family heirloom. priceless, organic, simple at first glance but even a breath of a moment shows a glimmer of her complexity. Her secrets, her pain. On her back is a 70 year old shell that protects her innermost parts and holds the sometimes painful fluid of memories so compact that even one is larger than her. bigger than her life. I covet her. I want to hold her and chronicle my family because I don't know my history. There's a lot of emphasis on knowing where you come from. people can trace their family heritage back to kings and generals, ancestors unearthed in other countries surrounded by artifacts. my mom's drawings are her artifacts. I quietly mourned her throwing away her wedding dress because the sanctity of her marriage had been ruined many times over. but family wise, I know that a great great great.. add whatever the appropriate number of greats needed... she was a slave somewhere in North Carolina. For this, among other reasons, I look to the Bible. I consider it truth and if nothing else I consider it a account of my distant family history. The original parents and all that. I know more about figures that for years have been argued as to their authenticity as I do about my own much more closely related family. I have people somewhere alive that share my DNA. they look like me to some degree. we have the same smiles, some do, but I have only ever heard the occasional story. It's easier to accept that the entirety of mankind is my family... This feeling of mine makes wars feel like family feuds. I don't go to sleep upset with my future husband. outside of our circle or family is dying to kill one another. I don't know where I come from past what's on my birth certificate, and until I receive proof otherwise, I will love everyone like family. Scared, tired, angry and confused and family. maybe one of them knows something past slavery in North Carolina.
One seemingly empty technological, emotional chasm to another. my technology to any with the bandwidth to hear. I was affected by a nothing meaning and broken comment from the one that I love. It wasn't misunderstood or misinterpreted. He meant what he said. He didn't mean it how it sounded, and he said as much. while my brain was on his side nearly immediately, my heart felt the burn and the silence that followed did nothing to cool my heart. Nothing to halt the progression of the pain. Searing words that would have been nothing on a heart less exposed. Road noise obscured his immediate apology. the highway has a way of doing that. I will get past it, I eventually found the words to express myself in text while still talking to him and true to our original promise we did not go to sleep upset. On healthy emotional skin, on proper covering of ones heart the warmth of the words would have felt as intense as a resting your fingers on a low watt bulb that has only just been turned on. I found myself upset at my own fragility. Three days apart and I was on love rations. He is back now and I will build up my stores again.