we need to be more honest with ourselves

...death happens.

Recently, my family had some sort of "welcome home" cookout for me. As the meal was dying down, my uncle, Gary, and my father were loading plates and kitchenware into Gary's car. I followed behind, carrying the remainder of the potato salad. As I approached the car, I saw the two men place the dishes into the trunk and then pause. It seemed as if they were having a "guy talk." As I drew closer, I honed in on the fact that they were discussing their fathers. A man's relationship with his father is something that I feel like I will never be able to fully understand, and something that I feel most sons and fathers never do, either. Will my father ever understand why, when he drove up from Florida to North Carolina to spend Thanksgiving with his father, he ended up eating a pre-packaged sandwich and chips from Speedway? Doubtful. Will he ever understand how he's spent many birthdays without receiving so much as a simple phone call from his father or why he didn't call his father "Dad" when he was a boy, but rather "Bill?" Doubtful again. And perhaps more importantly, will he ever understand why, when his father has never been there in any sense of the term, he has such regret and such overwhelming guilt for not being the most perfect son he could be?

Unlike my father, Gary's relationship with his father seemed to be filled with more certainty and less doubt, however I say that with a shallow-at-best understanding of their unique dynamic. His family is from the country and are very humble people. But for whatever reason, it struck me as odd when, as I was placing the potato salad in the car, Gary described his father's death the way he did. "Well, Billy," he began, "my father i-was from the country...well, you see, he's just di-he's just passed away." And there it was: a grown man with children of his own, unable to say a simple word, unable to admit one of life's only guarantees.

I walked back to the house, leaving those two to discuss their Kafka-esque dilemmas. While I accept that I will never be able to understand what truly transpires between fathers and sons, I would like to know why we speak in euphemisms. Sure, they are easy to say, and for that matter, easy to hear. However, what's easiest is very rarely what's best, and if you can't handle something as easy and natural as dying, what can you handle? Euphemisms are nothing more than opiates, really. When we use them, we inhibit the sensation of truth for a few moments of numbness, a few moments of sleep. And if you'd rather feel dead than say the word "dead," then what's the point of living?

...life happens.

As I've been at home recovering from only God knows what (I blame it on bad Indian food, my mother blames it on jet-lag and recurring mono), I've been able to root around a bit more. I love looking around in my mother's room the most. You might call it snooping. When I was younger, I considered her bedside table to be a veritable treasure trove, and I always considered it a great accomplishment when I was able to decipher her handwriting in her journals. That came with consequences, though. I was 8 years old when I read of the problems that led to the divorce between my mother and father, and I was 10 years old when I learned that my mother has had an abortion. She still believes I don't know, and sometimes I like to believe that I don't know, either.

Anyway, I have always been fascinated with the way one decorates their room, and especially how it changes over the years. I've never really understood the re-arranging of furniture unless it serves a functional purpose (a chair is still something on which you sit, if it's next to a window or by a potted plant, after all), but the evolution of a room (or devolution, for that matter) over time is very telling. Not much has changed in my mother's room, she still has dried flowers in frames, a framed letter of Eleanor Roosevelt's, and the majority of her furniture is green or floral. There have been a few additions, including a piece of art I bought her in Granada, more books, more DVDs, but that's about it.

The one thing that has found feet of its own is the scale. When my mother was dieting, it rested shiny and clean on the bathroom floor. And after a few months, it began to collect dust. One day when I decided to weigh myself, I went into the bathroom and the scale was nowhere to be found. I searched her room and found it hidden under her hunter green armoir. And on this most recent examination of her room, I've found it nestled under her bed along with my dog's chewed up play things. And for whatever reason, I wanted to cry. What happened between its home in the armoir and the bed, I do not know. What I do know is that a woman's relationship with an inanimate object should not be more tumultuous than a relationship with something that actually lives. Life is too short. 

...change happens.

My friends had a welcome home party for me yesterday. I don't know if it was because I had just puked up my pathetic meal of the day moments prior, half an apple, or because the heat made me feel completely nauseated, but something was off. There was a certain element of disconnect among the guests and myself. A month's absence in the grand scheme of things is nothing, but it is quite interesting to see how relationships can change in such a short period of time. I came there, excited to talk about my stories in Spain, but upon my entrance, that excitement vanished quickly and entirely. Generally a more outspoken member of a group, I spent the majority of my time there listening and watching. They were regaling all kinds of things: parties, potentially dangerous situations that they encountered, various nights of drinking and drugs. At first, I found them to be entertaining, but as the stories continued and seemed to grow longer in duration, I lost interest. I felt out of place and in some sort of limbo. I felt like I was outside of my body, watching myself listen to a conversation, knowing what was going on but unable to respond, unable to move. Thumb-printed pictures they had taken were being shoved into my face, and all I heard were shouts of "Look how stupid _____ looks!" I stared down at my plate of food and felt like I was going to puke again.

The problem isn't with them, it's with me. Although, I sometimes wonder if it is even a problem at all. I feel as if we slap the title of "problem" onto situations that we don't like, when really they are just a quick and inevitable jab at our homeostasis. Well, my friends are changing in their own right, but unfortunately I am as well. That's the real problem with people--not that we can't change, but that we can and that we do. I've felt these changes growing in my mind for awhile now, but I guess a flight across an ocean gave them wings. I don't consider myself the same person I was yesterday (and technically, I can't), but I certainly don't consider myself the same person I was months ago. There are a few key threads that remain, but ultimately they're weaving a different blanket. And while in some respects the ability to change is exciting, it is equally saddening. I look forward to my many new forms, but I can't help but wish that I could hold on to the pieces for a little while more.