Two weeks ago I found myself in Salem, Oregon, to perform an unpleasant task requiring me to entertain myself for a period of time. With help from a not-quite-articulate employee at a Shell station, a tattered phonebook, and repeated phone calls to my mother in Utah, I found the graves of my maternal grandparents.
Unpacking the baggage of my maternal relations is a slow project. Just when I believe I have made progress, a seemingly insignificant word, gesture, or memory slams me back to a space of bewilderment, where nothing makes sense and a toxic cocktail of sadness swirled with resentment courses through me. Lately the sadness predominates, especially in the aftertaste, which is a welcomed change from the days and years when I took my resentment (and often rage) straight up, followed by agonizing emotional hangovers.
No wonder I love paradox, what with the mix of teetotaling women, alcoholic men, and a familial culture of silence that leaves me with the above picture as my only tangible remnant of the woman who gave birth to my mother.
1 comment:
This one made me cry: the image, the feeling, the articulateness about sometimes in- (or is it pre-?) articulate feelings.
My mother recently asked me for a poem about growing up in her house. Thank goodness it was in a list of other birthday wishes because each time I tried I came up blank or twisted. So much meaning to unearth. Thanks for sharing this part of your search.
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