The Pieces They Will Carry
I can remember the 1989 Earthquake. We were in Half Moon Bay, a dreamy coastal town, visiting family friends. I was 4 and I felt the ground trembling under my feet as I watched books tumble to the ground. I know dishes broke, but I didn’t hear them. I can’t recall the look of fear on my mom’s face as she used her body to wrap my sister and me into the door frame. Afterwards we took a walk and saw a neighbor’s solarium, made entirely of glass, completely shattered. I remember his face as he swept up the pieces. It’s curious the pieces we carry with us from childhood. The parts we take and the parts we leave behind.
My friend and I have started running together, 6-feet apart. We shared back and forth events in our childhood that stood out, grappling with what our young children will remember from all the events of this year. She told me about the time when she was 10, learning the atomic bomb wasn’t just an idea, a man-made creation—but a weapon, that had been used. She ran into her room and ripped down a sign that read “Love Never Fails” and tore it into tiny pieces. Recounting to me, she laughed and called herself a “Drama Queen”. I disagree. This wasn’t dramatic, this was moment she fell off the cliff--the time the catcher in the rye couldn’t save her. Or rather, wasn’t meant to.
One of the many reasons we have yet to take a Disney vacation is because I don’t want to be poking my daughters in line for Pirates of the Caribbean saying, “Remember and appreciate this moment. Now give me a bite of your $22 churro”. Parenthood is a delicate balance between protection and exposure. Shelter under the doorway, but observe the destruction. Wear the masks, but limit talk of death. Explain about racism, but how to explain about Trump?
Yesterday I took a shot at normalcy and we went for frozen yogurt at our favorite place across from where we would participate in Farmers Market.
Absolutely nothing felt right.
No we can’t go inside.
No we can’t serve ourselves.
No we can’t play on the playground.
Don’t go near the other kids.
Farmer’s Market cannot exist like it once did.
When we were done, Charlotte found a baby praying mantis. We took it home in the Earth-destroying tiny plastic container their sprinkles had to come in. The girls watched its regal movements before setting it free, as I ducked away. I became so overwhelmed with sadness, I needed to find a space to cry alone over the breadcrumbs of a childhood I feared I was giving them. But this was from my own eyes, not theirs. I hope they recall sitting on the bench together as sisters, or the miraculously tiny insect. I know, however, I have about as much control over which memories they will take with them during this time, as I do over the atomic bomb itself.
My friend, a sensitive and compassionate woman, grew up to be a high school principal for a continuation high school that celebrates diverse non-traditional students. Today my oldest daughter told me, that even though she can’t see my mouth behind my mask, she knows I’m smiling because she can see it in my eyes. I can only hope that’s the piece she will carry.