The Not Shiny Parts
We argued tonight.
You accused me of being already elevated – in a bad mood before you even walked through the door.
You weren’t wrong.
We had plans. Dinner with friends. I wanted to get there on time, but your class at the gym ran late.
You left the kitchen to go take a shower. I followed you. On the way up the stairs, our voices took on a jagged edge.
Whenever we argue, I feel like the worst parts of me are exposed: my pettiness, my righteousness, my shame. At the same time, I see the worst of you. I forget all about the goodness.
Can we love the un-shiny version of ourselves? I guess that’s the question. I guess you might say that’s what we’re still learning to do.
When I think of our life together, I think of couches. Though the style and fabric has changed over time, this piece of furniture remains our command center, our battleground, our comfort zone.
The first one was white with an embroidered design. In our apartment, you stood over the sewing machine, piecing together long strips of fabric. You finished the cushions and sewed the rest by hand, using a running stitch taken from a book on oral surgery. Once it was done, we had a Couch Party to celebrate. You made coconut shrimp.
We were gorgeous back then, the kind of gorgeous you can’t appreciate in yourself. We were tan and lean. Our youthfulness glowed. But we were blind to it.
From there, a light brown microfiber sectional. We rocked infants and read to toddlers. It’s where some of our worst arguments happened, as autism took a foothold within our little family.
Next, a red pull-out sofa with cushions that were sewed on to the back. It sits in the basement now - teenagers lounge on it while they play video games.
Our current couch is blue. We bought it just before COVID. Another sectional with a chaise on one end, and what we call “the nest” at the other.
The day my mother died, we sat on it together and watched one of her favorite movies. Beaches, with Bette Midler.
It was a mistake. I thought I was ready. A mere six hours after I learned she’d passed, I thought I was ready to watch the movie we watched together during a rare moment of goodness between us when I was in high school. You held me while I sobbed during the credits, tears slipping down your own face.
No one lets me talk about her.
I want to talk about her.
I want to talk about the brokenness, the fractures, the decade-long estrangement.
I want to talk about the brief moments of goodness.
No one wants to hear it.
Except you.
But back to the fight.
You slammed the shower door. I huffed out of the room. I went back downstairs and sat at my desk, seething. I thought once more of my mother. The tears on your face.
I walked back upstairs to find you. Un-shiny me. I found you standing in front of the mirror combing your hair. You turned, palms outstretched. Forgiveness has always been your superpower.
Now, we sit on our blue couch every night. Me on the chaise, you in the nest. We wait for the lights to sweep up the driveway – teenagers home from work, from the movies, from their secret lives. When our oldest calls from college, we swap the phone back and forth between us.
We catch each other’s eye and smile at a funny text Jack sends.
Here, we’re briefly young again. We’re briefly gorgeous.
We are the culmination of our battle scars, our jagged voices, our stolen moments.
Un-shiny.
Yet good.