memory
I leaned forward in the shower, to shave my legs this morning, dislodging a hymn I haven't heard in some time: The Lord Bless You and Keep You. I think that's what it's called, and it came rushing back in harmony, all four parts. I'm certain we sang this at the end of devos - sans the red hats, devotionals held every Sunday night - and I am standing in a parking lot, near a Joy Bus, on a trip to Mexico. My friends are on either side of me and now I recall I once knew this song in Spanish too, but memory is tricky.
Beneath the surface lies everything.
My cousin came to visit last December, arriving on my birthday and joining my family for coffee.
No. That's not right.
I could have written this post last year, if the story was just that simple.
My cousin came to visit, this is true. But the rest is difficult to tell, because it's the stuff I try to keep out of my blog. The side of the family that requires a flow chart.
This is not my cousin's fault; it isn't mine. But our shared Grandmother charmed seven men into marrying her - one twice - and the rest is part of our shared history.
It is tangled and messy and painful. A graphed tree; splinters.
My Dad was the youngest and grew to be a kind, decent man, intact. For his sake, I haven't written about his family here. I've been warned not to speak poorly of the dead, but long ago I chose to speak truthfully about her. I chose to view her graciously, to see my Grandmother for the flawed woman that she was, most likely mentally ill and untreated. But the collateral damage is sweeping.
I heard my older cousin's voice, and it's the voice of the young woman braiding my hair. My memories of my many cousins are scattered, like characters in a book I knew once upon a time.
She was playing with my hair and I could feel her grief even then. It was the last time I saw her, or so I believe, before she was rescued and raised by her father. Somewhere warmer and safer.
I don't know why exactly, but I haven't kept in touch with her. It's been a year this time around and I am ashamed.
Beneath the surface lies everything.
My cousin came to visit last December, arriving on my birthday and joining my family for coffee.
No. That's not right.
I could have written this post last year, if the story was just that simple.
My cousin came to visit, this is true. But the rest is difficult to tell, because it's the stuff I try to keep out of my blog. The side of the family that requires a flow chart.
This is not my cousin's fault; it isn't mine. But our shared Grandmother charmed seven men into marrying her - one twice - and the rest is part of our shared history.
It is tangled and messy and painful. A graphed tree; splinters.
My Dad was the youngest and grew to be a kind, decent man, intact. For his sake, I haven't written about his family here. I've been warned not to speak poorly of the dead, but long ago I chose to speak truthfully about her. I chose to view her graciously, to see my Grandmother for the flawed woman that she was, most likely mentally ill and untreated. But the collateral damage is sweeping.
I heard my older cousin's voice, and it's the voice of the young woman braiding my hair. My memories of my many cousins are scattered, like characters in a book I knew once upon a time.
She was playing with my hair and I could feel her grief even then. It was the last time I saw her, or so I believe, before she was rescued and raised by her father. Somewhere warmer and safer.
I don't know why exactly, but I haven't kept in touch with her. It's been a year this time around and I am ashamed.
******
I couldn't finish my novel in 30 days. I am not writing autobiographical novel, not ostensibly anyway, but the stories I keep private, that aren't mine to share here? They keep informing my fiction, coming out. Bits and pieces of thoughts and images, not facts, but impressions sifting through my words.
I couldn't finish my novel in 30 days because I wasn't emotionally prepared for the emerging characters, making themselves heard.
I am uneasy. What is mine to tell?
I couldn't finish my novel in 30 days because I wasn't emotionally prepared for the emerging characters, making themselves heard.
I am uneasy. What is mine to tell?
Comments
By the way, I have never attempted NaBloPoMo, but have considered it ... and writing something (for me, more) autobiographical.
xo.
shaving your legs dislodges hymns? i want to hear more about *that* process...
WOW. You just don't know how that hit me today.
It is so deep and moving for me, expresses so much that I want to say.
Thank you!
I didn't finish nano either. My characters hijacked my fantasy novel and turned it into a teenage romance. Gag.
What if you tried to write it out and decide afterwards what to cut out? Or maybe just putting it all out there would clear some room for non-autobiographical stuff?