Thirty Four February 20, 2014Posted by The Typist in 365, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
The story I am telling here has been told many times before. Change the name of the father (or from that of the father to some other name) and the story may well be about you. It may well be a story about how your sense of connection to other people can never be told entirely apart from a feeling of anger (theirs toward you, yours toward them).
5156. Reign of Terror — Jeff Nunokawa
Change the name and then sit with your aging parent, trying to cheer them and be a loving son. Try not to remember that slap in anger the day you cried when forced to wear an over-started dress shirt, scratching at your skin like sandpaper. Try not to remember the other slaps or wonder why this one stands out in memory. Try not to remember instead (but never forget) the sisters to whom you were the darling baby brother, the family maid who looms as large in your early memories as your own parent. Try instead to remember the person who got drunk that Christmas at the dinner you and your girlfriend hosted–turkey and ham and goose and far too much wine–and the stories she told them. Try to find the strength to open the ribbon-tied box of tissue-thin airmail letters written from Europe by your father, to find the person he knew then, the one in the silver-framed picture of a young soldier and his bride.
Try, as the nursing home slowly claims her for its own, to fill the blank holes in your childhood with love.