Walking in on a homicide as an eleven year old changed my life for years. Like a scratch on CD that got left out of its case and every time it comes to that one song, it gets stuck not being able to move forward... brzub... brzub... brzub... brzub...
Her eyes told the story, reflecting ignorance in her motives, friends cackling as she stood over the victim...the slow drip off the end of the weapon rang heavy in my heart as I stood framed in the doorway. My lips moved, seeking words, to capture thoughts, amid the ripping noise inside me howling out through my clenched teeth. How could my sister do this....
Defiled, spread across the desk, exposed...GI Joe issue #21...now stained with Strawberry Shortcake stamps. Ironically, the silent issue, not a word among the panels that blended into the story that definitively set Snake Eyes as the strong hero. Silent, like our relationship became for so many years.
It was not just about a 75 cent comic book destroyed, but years of anger building up, some deserved, others fabricated by a mind that was stuck in a moment, giving reason to the bitterness that clung like tar from a freshly sealed road to my heart. Innocent words twisted to bombshells on the backs of CDs...boom...boom...boom...love and hugs held hostage with cold glances and mumbles.
Sometimes its easier to forgive strangers than those we should love.
Licking the bottom of an ashtray dropped into a urinal, the smell that dripped from the air forming puddles under my flip flops. Bile rose in my throat, as I grabbed the bags of trash wrapped neatly in their pristine white plastic, tossing them into the still wet dumpsters. Looking like a space man, in his protective suit, pressure washer blasting at stains and leftover particles of three month old dinner, the man gave a friendly wave returning to his duty of cleaning off the cold metal bins. Retreating quickly behind closed doors, I gasped for the freshness of cool air in car, but the smell would not leave.
Our wounds pile up in trash cans, compacted to make room, until the weight becomes too much to bear. Sometimes we never unpack them...for fear of the smell of decomposing denial and rancid retaliation...letting go of our pain seems like we are giving up that for which we have lived. Its just easier to let it stay silent...or so we believe in our misery of carrying around our trash cans while the odor still lingers, permeating our other relationships, tainting what little life we cling to.
Maybe we need to take out the pressure washer. Letting our trash cans go, letting those that wronged us go, letting the CD go on to another song...so we can walk freely into a life unencumbered, remembering the smell so we never let it happen again.
I love my sister.
I probably don't tell her enough.