Day after Thanksgiving, Undoing

Photo by Mel Poole on Unsplash

There are only two kinds of soundscapes at my mother’s house: silence, or CBS morning news. Both of these are gently punctuated by other sounds: plates going into the dishwasher, the muted beeps of cooking timers, or soft feet padding down the hall to retrieve a book from the tall book shelves.

I arrive at my mother’s house and I feel deeply loved, accepted, and welcomed. I am aware of my good fortune in having this. I also feel muted, almost muzzled. Everything gets quieter, and suddenly I find I have nothing much to say.

I have always been an introverted person. In the real meaning of “introvert,” I haven’t changed much. But I have become more freely joyful, more open to both express and receive emotions. This has been a challenging road. Like so many roads we travel, I can only see the degree of difficulty when I go back to the start and look over the journey. When I go back to my mother’s house, the gap between the past and the now fills in with an impossible looking terrain.

I stand in my mother’s living room holding a handful of ornaments as she circles the tree, looking for the correct spots to place them. In the background, the CBS morning news crew talks about first jobs and holiday meals. I feel like my skin is tightening around me as I stand there, silently helpful, looking on and not interfering.