When the Air Quiets

Sitting on the couch I hear their voices.

Worried father.

Longing son.

From the next room over, I watch from the outside.

A stern talking-to about respect, about keeping a budget.

A 16-year old’s eyeroll.

The tension rises.

I know their hearts better than I know my own.

Their distance is palpable.

For now.

This what I tell myself.

For now.

A man given to football, to golf, to bourbon and James Bond movies.

A teenager given to earrings, perfume, bracelets on his slender wrists.

It’s not about acceptance. It was never about acceptance.

Both accept each other wholly.

But they do not understand one another.

Their common ground is a shrinking welcome mat beneath their feet.

Swirling in the background are siblings. They observe the discourse. They urge their brother to play the game. To nod his head and agree.

He will not nod. He will not play the game.

Part of me admires his backbone. His grit.

Part of me wishes he would acquiesce.

I close my eyes. Underneath their words, I hear their truth.

How badly I want to intervene. To soothe, to assure, to translate.

Why?

Why do I default to management?

Maybe it’s because I was programmed early to choose.

At first, mother or father.

Then, father or stepfather.

Mother or stepmother.

Lastly, mother or husband.

Or maybe it’s my strong need for peace. Raised voices are too a strong a reminder of arguments that turned to chaos. Dishes against the wall. Doors slammed while the house vibrated.

After all, who are we if not our younger selves, determined to see history replay itself again and again?

We have built something new.

We have built something different.

This is what I remind myself.

Sometimes, it is nothing more than a father teaching his son about how to manage money.

Often, I wonder if there is another family like ours.

A family with petty slights, fear masked in lectures, a fierce kind of love.

I wonder if I am alone.

I am alone.

On paper, we are a great concept.

But the paper-to-life translation is often messy.

I do not know how to help them bridge the gap.

Perhaps it is not my job.

Perhaps I can only sit on the sidelines and watch them find their way.

The air is quieter now. I hear the cabinet open, the toaster on the counter.

Talk of bagels. Cream cheese or butter.

He offers.

He accepts.

The air around us quiets.

---

More by Carrie: