I had a front row seat when they began to dismember her. Chunk by chunk, they dissected her and spread her out and scrutinized her. They scooped and sawed and chipped at her until there was nothing left inside; until eventually the wire she was made to walk became so narrow, tight, and sharp, no one could have walked it without bloodying themselves in the inevitable fall. With no recourse left to her, she fled. Her paychecks, every single one vitally necessary, ceased, and for weeks she lived by her wits and her faith in God and in the loving arms of her friends. Her children watched, angry and confused, to see how their mother, loved by so many and loving so many herself, suffered. They struggled with adolescent embarrassment and childish fear for the parent who had always been their touchstone, which she continued to be despite her shattered world. Swirled into this thick soup of pain was their fierce loyalty for the mother who loved them equally fiercely. Ultimately, they stood beside her. On the side of the right. As she taught them. They inspired her with words she used to inspire them, and in the end, they comforted each other and held each other up above the mess. She, so hurt and damaged by people she respected, trying to keep the love that was the focus and the force of her life, the impetus for all she did and all she was, in the forefront of her new reality, gritted her teeth, screamed inside over and over, shed frustrated grieving tears, pacing through those long quiet nights, and when the sun came up, just slogged on through the mud, as she had many times before. I have never respected anyone as much as I respected her in those desperate days.
One day after she had moved and was gone, I received a call from our friend who was at her empty house. “There are some things here that I don’t know what to do with. Can you help?” And I, of course, can. And do. It was clear she had endured all she could before just shattering and disappearing into the abyss. Her home was no longer her refuge. The army had arrived, banging on the door with hard fists. They ransacked her tired defenses and left her life in ruins. Desperate, she gathered her children and fled. I’d have done the same, but much sooner. We sorted through possessions and loaded a truck with things to save for her, and put some things on the curb and some other things to donate and we, silent and sad, locked the door behind us, and felt so empty and drained on that starry fall night. We said quiet goodbyes to each other, friends who get together often, but it had the feeling of forever in it. The way we were was done, and we were as hollow and bereft as the house we’d just emptied.
I couldn’t go home to my own home that night. It felt too greedy and self-satisfied; that to take refuge there in that place where I always find my peace would be mocking the searing tragedy I’d just left. I walked a long way in the dark, trying to forget. And trying to remember so I wouldn’t ever forget. I looked in the windows of the houses as I walked, and wondered about homes and houses and what defines the difference.
I pass the “green” house of an ardently eco-conscious young family. The florescent ceiling lights give off a cold blue light, as if they’re living in the butcher shop my grandmother and I walked to in the dark on Saturday nights to pick up the Sunday roast. There are no curtains or blinds on the windows. They hold dust and tempt allergies to set up lodging in this pure house. This sterile house. I see the children working on a project at the table by the window. Brown cardboard. White glue. Cotton string. There are no markers, glitter, paint. There is no art on any of the white walls to inspire them. This is not a house where I’d want to live. The serious mother reads in a chair under yet another cold blue light. Her eyes will be saved. The photographs in her book will appear as intended in the correct lighting. Would she know what to do with warmth if it should appear and bathe her and her children in a golden glow? Are they missing it? Do they know they don’t have it? She’s saving the earth, but for what?
There’s a spectacular house on this street with candles in every window. It is filled with antique furniture and has big brick chimneys that puff out smoke from multiple fireplaces that spread delicious warmth on the cold nights of winter. It is beautifully landscaped. It is a showplace. It is perfect. It is all hollow show. Inside there are petty fights and slammed doors. There are tears and angry phone calls. There are ultimatums and threats and little deceptions and mistrust and long silences. It is a house that masquerades as a home.
I pass a house where inside I know a grandfather is dying. His children won’t make him take those last steps alone and they sit by his bed and hold his hands and he smiles as he comes and goes, and comes and goes. After it is done, they rest awhile with him and with each other, sharing memories, shedding tears, and yes, laughing, before making the call that sets that express train of EMTs, ambulances, and funeral directors in motion and he no longer belongs to them. They wash him. They pray. They tend to him for the last time as he did for his parents; as the love and duty in their family assumes. This is a home.
I stand in the dark on the sidewalk across the street from that sad loving home. The smoke from my cigar, cedar-scented and peppery on my tongue, like this beautiful woman now gone from my life, rises past my eyes and up into the black sky, and tears roll down my cheeks. And I’m grateful to have had the chance to finally really help her. And help myself.
Her house was a home. Always scrubbed clean, it was warm and fragrant with candles and cooking. Laughter filled it up and spilled out the door and down the steps. Her quiet patience permeated every corner. There was discipline for her children that framed their world and contained it; that gave them something to count on. When I got that call and saw her house, still filled with things, filled with her, I felt my heart gripped and twisted. I felt her desperation, her fear, her urgency. And even though her new job is good, her new home is nice, and her children are happy in their new town, I finally sensed what she never betrayed as she struggled to stay strong for those in her life who counted on her for everything. I finally understood the depth of her despair, and her terror as that misguided power forced its way into her home, held her prisoner, and wouldn’t leave no matter what she did until she was wounded and worn out with the struggle.
We three friends sorted and carried things to the curb. We recycled and boxed and bagged and saved and discarded and shed tears and sweat. An exorcism of anger and worry and finally, finally a physical manifestation of our love for her to wear us out and dispel some of our grief. Here finally was the help we’d been longing to give. Here finally was something we could do for her. The people who loved her boxed up the pain and the fear, swept the desperation into a dusty pile on the floor and threw it out once and for all. We tidied up the tattered debris of years of anger and confusion and betrayal for her, and finally cleaned that slate. We keep her things for her, tending them, until she comes back to reclaim them. Until she comes back to reclaim us. To see us, to laugh with us, to hold us in hugs that we never want to end.
I stub my cigar out in the grass at my feet. I wipe the tears off my face. I walk home.