Allie
You pull and push; like you did the nine years you were married. Reaching for the handle on the steel door of the U-Haul, you pull upward to your chest. You roll your wrist and suddenly you are pushing, hoisting the door over your head just how did with Margaret. You look over at your daughter expectantly. She’ll be starting middle school soon. You’ll never be able to teach her how to be a woman, what not to wear and how to apply eye liner, but you can teach her how to be strong. She huffs and leans in for the first of the boxes. As it slides across the flatbed, granules of mystery sand shush, scratch and pop, echoing Margaret’s temperament. Since she left, you’ve agonized over the blame. It was easy in the beginning—“She gave up on us”—but one day you caught your daughter glaring back at you across the breakfast table, her eyes not entirely convinced that her mother’s disappearance wasn’t your fault. You scanned your memory for indications, the first signs of trouble; they were there. Margaret voiced her concerns, she never claimed to be unafraid, and now your daughter has to suffer for your cowardice, because you were too selfish to live alone. Your muscles tighten as you reach for the next box. Your knees bend and then go straight again, calibrating for the new weight, your spine ratcheting up like a car jack. Your daughter has already started up the walkway to the front door; you waddle after her before you find a proper sway. You both set your boxes down in the foyer of your parent’s house. Part of you is grateful that Dad isn’t alive to see you move back in. He wouldn’t tell you that you failed, but you know he’d be thinking it. It was your job to keep your marriage together, to make sure Margaret was assured. You look over at your daughter. Her pupils are glazed with new tears but she won’t let them fall, not until she’s away from you. Dropping a hand on her tiny shoulder, you pull her into a hug and wrap her tight. You want to smother her tears so she’ll never cry again. As she squirms uncomfortably you make a silent promise to her, “I won’t fail with you the way I failed with your mother,” and, through some sort of telepathy, she concedes to your embrace. Lingering in each other’s warmth, the afternoon sun traces the two of you on the hardwood floor, and you stand there knowing that whatever comes next it will require you to be a better person than you ever thought possible.
aletdownsquid, or as I know him Donald, is the BFE. He’s also writing a book which you should buy here. I bought mine! Get excited!!
