“Writing is a struggle against silence.”
- Carlos Fuentes
Sitting at the rockery I’ve created under the tree in my mother’s yard, weeping. At the realization, anew, that the ones who were supposed to protect me since infancy, as an only daughter and an only sister, later an only sister-in-law, and a niece, were the very people from whom I needed to be protected. The irony of familial abuse.
It’s still happening today. Even now. And I know with a grief-stricken surety that it will continue without surcease until, one by one, we all fall off this earthly perch. Thus it is. Thus it shall always be. And I accept it. Finally. Truly.
But that’s not why I’m weeping, raw, in front of my nonjudgmental floral audience. I am undone by the old pictures of me from those days and years – so many years – experiencing then what I still am today.
How did she get through it? I wonder and marvel. With that radiant smile on her face, most of the time, behind which hid the pain. I knew that pain. Intimately. Viscerally. Deep invisible psychic scars of the heart.
I weep for that. The unnecessary pity of it all.
And I weep for her.
The her that just happens to be me.