(no subject)
It’s one of those things that you are never really prepared for isn’t it? Leaving the proverbial nest? Yet here I am, my little truck packed down as much as it can hold, my best friend Alex at the wheel, waiting patiently. He knows this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. So he sits, and waits, unlike the impatient man he is, until I can get it together.
“I just can’t stay here with her. You understand don’t you?” My eyes seek his, praying that it will be understanding I see instead of miserable dark anger. He’s always understood me. Always. When I was growing up, it was always he who understood me. It was always him who would figure out through my muddled logic what reasons I had for doing what I had to do.
And yet, standing here in the rain, tears running down my throat as I refused to let my face betray me, there was confusion. “Stacy, this isn’t what it has to be. I can build a wall. I can make you a private entrance. What about your siblings? It’s right before Christmas. You can’t leave now.” Visions danced in front of my former life. Christmas with my grandparents, my siblings, my mother hugging us each as we come to sit on the blanket in front of the tree. Handing out presents to each of the children. Waking up early with the kids to make coffee and waffles for my parents. Big Christmas dinners with real pink hams and red cherries all over them. I almost tell him yes. Yes I would stay, and would go on with the charade. This is when Alex’s impatience paid off. He shifted and wiggled, drawing me back to the present and away from my memories of Christmas past.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I told you. It was her or me. You seem to have made your choice.” I look past his shoulder to the woman on the porch. She’s gaunt now and shrinking. I’ve never seen her look so sick. Or perhaps it’s that I have never truly seen her. In my dreams she is always larger than life. Always a giant ready to seek and devour me for the smallest mistake, accident or wrong deed. Today, she looks tiny as she leans against the rail, dragging away on a cigarette. I thought about taking up the habit once. She always looked so beautiful doing it. I always wanted to be beautiful like her. To exude the confidence and grace of a goddess. Luckily, I also realized it was an expensive habit, and I already had too many of those.
“Stacy, you can’t. Not now. You have to think of someone other than yourself. It’s Christmas, damn it!” He looked so tired. He’s always been a small and sickly man, but right now, he looked near to death. His skin stretched tight around his face, gray protruding from the raven hair that he always kept military short.
“I have to, Daddy,” my voice cracked. The tears threatened then, but I swallowed them back. “Alex is waiting. I’ll be home on Christmas Day, okay?” With that, I hugged him close, and turned. My sister Megan looked at me. “Stacy, you’re going to be here for Christmas right? We can’t open presents without you! It’s a tradition!” She drew out tradition. Traditions are always big with us. We try to do things the same way every year.
“Of course Meggie-beth! I’m always home for Christmas. I’ll see you then.” With a wave goodbye to rest of my forlorn siblings I jump into my truck. Alex knows better than to speak when I push him out of the driver’s seat. No way am I giving up anymore control in life. It’s already far enough out of my control as is.
At this point, it might be good to back up and punt, as my friend Scott would say. My name is Stacy Ann Rae. Or at least it is now. I’ve been called many things. Who would know that Stacy is such a hard name to remember? I get all sorts of names thrown at me. But that’s beside the point. I have a tendency to chase rabbit trails, in case you haven’t noticed. I am 22 years old at the time of this writing. I have a heck of a story to tell, or so I’ve been told.
I won’t promise this will always be interesting, I can’t promise this will always be truthful. All in all I am a truthful person, but sometimes this will be my memories, and what are memories other than lies that we decide to form about a situation. Embarrassing memories are eased, successful memories are embellished, and painful memories are either eased or worsened according to time and personality type. So, this is not the truth. This is the truth. Your call.
“I just can’t stay here with her. You understand don’t you?” My eyes seek his, praying that it will be understanding I see instead of miserable dark anger. He’s always understood me. Always. When I was growing up, it was always he who understood me. It was always him who would figure out through my muddled logic what reasons I had for doing what I had to do.
And yet, standing here in the rain, tears running down my throat as I refused to let my face betray me, there was confusion. “Stacy, this isn’t what it has to be. I can build a wall. I can make you a private entrance. What about your siblings? It’s right before Christmas. You can’t leave now.” Visions danced in front of my former life. Christmas with my grandparents, my siblings, my mother hugging us each as we come to sit on the blanket in front of the tree. Handing out presents to each of the children. Waking up early with the kids to make coffee and waffles for my parents. Big Christmas dinners with real pink hams and red cherries all over them. I almost tell him yes. Yes I would stay, and would go on with the charade. This is when Alex’s impatience paid off. He shifted and wiggled, drawing me back to the present and away from my memories of Christmas past.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I told you. It was her or me. You seem to have made your choice.” I look past his shoulder to the woman on the porch. She’s gaunt now and shrinking. I’ve never seen her look so sick. Or perhaps it’s that I have never truly seen her. In my dreams she is always larger than life. Always a giant ready to seek and devour me for the smallest mistake, accident or wrong deed. Today, she looks tiny as she leans against the rail, dragging away on a cigarette. I thought about taking up the habit once. She always looked so beautiful doing it. I always wanted to be beautiful like her. To exude the confidence and grace of a goddess. Luckily, I also realized it was an expensive habit, and I already had too many of those.
“Stacy, you can’t. Not now. You have to think of someone other than yourself. It’s Christmas, damn it!” He looked so tired. He’s always been a small and sickly man, but right now, he looked near to death. His skin stretched tight around his face, gray protruding from the raven hair that he always kept military short.
“I have to, Daddy,” my voice cracked. The tears threatened then, but I swallowed them back. “Alex is waiting. I’ll be home on Christmas Day, okay?” With that, I hugged him close, and turned. My sister Megan looked at me. “Stacy, you’re going to be here for Christmas right? We can’t open presents without you! It’s a tradition!” She drew out tradition. Traditions are always big with us. We try to do things the same way every year.
“Of course Meggie-beth! I’m always home for Christmas. I’ll see you then.” With a wave goodbye to rest of my forlorn siblings I jump into my truck. Alex knows better than to speak when I push him out of the driver’s seat. No way am I giving up anymore control in life. It’s already far enough out of my control as is.
At this point, it might be good to back up and punt, as my friend Scott would say. My name is Stacy Ann Rae. Or at least it is now. I’ve been called many things. Who would know that Stacy is such a hard name to remember? I get all sorts of names thrown at me. But that’s beside the point. I have a tendency to chase rabbit trails, in case you haven’t noticed. I am 22 years old at the time of this writing. I have a heck of a story to tell, or so I’ve been told.
I won’t promise this will always be interesting, I can’t promise this will always be truthful. All in all I am a truthful person, but sometimes this will be my memories, and what are memories other than lies that we decide to form about a situation. Embarrassing memories are eased, successful memories are embellished, and painful memories are either eased or worsened according to time and personality type. So, this is not the truth. This is the truth. Your call.