I distanced myself from her when we met my cousins, allowing myself to enjoy the thrill of seeing them after so many years. But I knew she was holding her breath, scared or fearful of what would come up.
It had been fifty years since she’d seen them too. Now we were the adults enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company and she was elderly, the reason for our meeting but peripheral to the intimacies that could now grow.
Back then, my cousins and I were children, and she and their parents were the adults who knew secrets. I was unaware of those taking place in their house, just as ours were unbeknownst to them.
Debra and Lisa seated themselves on either side of my mother. As she relaxed I felt myself let go the responsibility for her well-being in that moment. We all might get to know one another anew.
Ronnie’s son Adam sat down beside me. In his muscle shirt, his arm-length tattoo drew my attention. I asked to see it.
“Are you into mythology?” he asked. “This is Atlas shouldering the world.”
His voice was tentative, in the way I know he’d been trained as a police detective, to establish rapport, yet holding back. It relaxed me into enthusiasm.
No need to hook him with the darkness of generational secrets. I knew he had his own tales to tell, but they derived from 9/11, not from the immigrant children’s experience of his parents.
It had been fifty years since she’d seen them too. Now we were the adults enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company and she was elderly, the reason for our meeting but peripheral to the intimacies that could now grow.
Back then, my cousins and I were children, and she and their parents were the adults who knew secrets. I was unaware of those taking place in their house, just as ours were unbeknownst to them.
Debra and Lisa seated themselves on either side of my mother. As she relaxed I felt myself let go the responsibility for her well-being in that moment. We all might get to know one another anew.
Ronnie’s son Adam sat down beside me. In his muscle shirt, his arm-length tattoo drew my attention. I asked to see it.
“Are you into mythology?” he asked. “This is Atlas shouldering the world.”
His voice was tentative, in the way I know he’d been trained as a police detective, to establish rapport, yet holding back. It relaxed me into enthusiasm.
No need to hook him with the darkness of generational secrets. I knew he had his own tales to tell, but they derived from 9/11, not from the immigrant children’s experience of his parents.