Papers

Amidst the debris of clutter, among the years of things piled upon, chaotic shoving in of spaces, of things of little to no importance due to the distance of time, papers of pain were uncovered. A history unfolded in short passages, messages, of people passed on, most forgotten or unknown to the one riffling through the quagmire of emotions that the refuse brings.

Losing one’s parents is hard enough; uncovering aspects of them that you only thought you knew becomes the harder part to take in.

“Please forgive me…” began way too many letters, or messages in holiday/birthday cards, found among the leavings. Reading what he did was painful enough, so Bill only skimmed along, tossing, tossing, tossing…keeping a short pile that he knew he would confront at another time. Not now, not so soon, and maybe…maybe never. Private thoughts that now are laid bare, never for his eyes in the first place. He thought: Do I have the right/need to know any of this?

Short words of “Love,…,” saying so little, punctuated by messages that left messages of hope and caring, of hurt, pain, and an end to suffering. Is that how they lived for so long, Bill thought, even as he knew the answer. He hoped to escape the yelling, the push and pull games, the neediness from such a young age, and he ran out as fast as he could when he was younger. He knew, though, he could not just abandon, for their world crashed down upon them, and with that crashing he became one of the broken pieces, held together with glue and tape, shattered enough, strong enough. At times.

And then…then, buried snatches of the other. There were the messages of love he now found. They were concealed among the many non-meaning platitudes. They were not long, snippets only, words of caring, of hope, of praise, of cleansing. Bill read these, everyone of them, in full, sometimes again and again. He weighed these few against the pile of pain, and while his own heart was heavy, his chest tight, his stomach roiling…he weighed the messages of love against those of suffering.

Shaking his head to clear the conflict inside, Bill put them all together in one bag, sealing it for now. They could lay still and silent, or battle amongst themselves in the bag. He held his parents in his hands, their words, their wounds, and their care and concern for each other. It was one weight, one mass, and he felt it was equal, balanced enough, as he carried it away with him.

*****************************************

Author’s Note:

I wrote the above for Tale Spinning, my creative writing blog, originally on November 11th. This was the post that spurred Rabbi Pam to ask me to write in the first person and not hide behind any fiction. It was less than a month since my mother’s passing when I wrote this.

I’m going to copy and paste some of that work up here over the weekend. I don’t have a lot of time to write this weekend, so instead, I’ll post what others might not have seen. Since they were the genesis for Opening of Doors, I think it’s only fitting some of the work comes here.

 

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About StuHN

I am a creative individual with many areas of passion: Professional Storyteller; NYS Certified Drama Specialist/Educator; Professional Development Coordinator & Facilitator; Workshop Leader; sometime Puppeteer; Playwright; Director; Performer; Teaching Artist; and sometimes more.

Posted on March 1, 2013, in Anger, Caring, Despair, Family, Fear, Friends, Grief, Healing, Inspiration, Loneliness, Love, Meditations, Mindfulness, Therapy, Transformation and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. This is a beautiful story, but I also agree with the Rabbi. I’m learning how important it is (from both sides of the issue) to recognize that our parents are and were individuals. It may be painful, but how valuable to begin to understand the fullness of anyone’s life.

  2. I think it’s a great idea, transferring some of your fiction over to this blog. And I would encourage your readers here to peruse the Talespinning blog. I hope that one day you go back to writing fiction and short stories again.

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