Ten seconds. In the time it takes me to write the few words in these two sentences, ten seconds will have passed. But on New Year’s Eve, 2009, ten seconds was a lifetime.
Ten. I am four years old. My hair, wild and unruly, escapes in a bramble of curls beneath my father’s faded army helmet. My mother is unbelievably young. She holds a Polaroid camera, encouraging me to straighten my glasses and smile. My father sits behind her, on the sofa--his soft, young hands strumming the guitar I will forever see him with. I remember, and feel the warmth of innocence.
Nine. I am ten years old. My sister Lisa and I have carefully constructed our play “office.” TV trays serve as our desks, little scraps of paper with neat, fourth-grade handwriting are our sales receipts, and our toy intercom phones keep the business running smoothly. I see my sister in my mind’s eye and feel the tenderness of sisterhood.
Eight. I am 17 years old. I watch as my mother and three youngest siblings drive away. I watch the taillights and my childhood become smaller and smaller. Although I remain with my father, sister, and brother, I have never felt more alone. I am now the grown-up in the house. By the time they reach the end of the block, I miss them fiercely.
Seven. I am 19 years old. I hold his warm hand in mine. Nervously, our lips meet. It is love. I know I will spend my life with him. I feel my heart bursting with newness and wonder. He tells me he loves me, too, and I believe.
Six. I am 21 years old. The blush pink of the blanket is pushed back, revealing our miracle. Her delicate fingers are tiny, yet grasp my finger with stubborn determination. A sign of what is yet to come. I breathe her in and know I will never be the same.
Five. I am 30 years old. I look around at the many familiar faces that are my family. They are smiling and happy. My brothers are there. My sisters are there. My mother and father are there. My cake is awash in the light of 30 candles. I feel complete.
Four. I am 40 years old. I turn over, reaching for the warmth and familiarity of his body and our 20 years together. I feel the steel-cold of the sheets instead. The emptiness of the bed and my heart fills every pore of my being. I feel hollow, vast, dark, and alone. After twenty years, I discover lost love. It is as if I have been abandoned in the middle of the ocean. I don’t know if I can stay afloat.
Three. I am 43 years old. My mother is desperately pounding at my apartment door. My head is throbbing and my voice does not come. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I see the bottles that have become my life. They are empty--like me. I feel hopeless.
Two. I am 44 years old. I am better. I feel something. It is small. One last dying ember hidden among the ashes that are my life. It waits to be re-ignited. Hesitantly, I let it lead me.
One. I am still 44 years old. It is New Year’s Eve. I am surrounded by love and kindness. I let the tears fall like confetti and with the last tear I let go of the past, surrendering completely. I take one last look behind me and see it all. Then, I turn, and face my future. It is 2010 and I am alive. Happy New Year.
Monday, August 16, 2010
10 Seconds
Ten seconds. In the time it takes me to write the few words in these two sentences, ten seconds will have passed. But on New Year’s Eve, 2009, ten seconds was a lifetime.
Ten. I am four years old. My hair, wild and unruly, escapes in a bramble of curls beneath my father’s faded army helmet. My mother is unbelievably young. She holds a Polaroid camera, encouraging me to straighten my glasses and smile. My father sits behind her, on the sofa--his soft, young hands strumming the guitar I will forever see him with. I remember, and feel the warmth of innocence.
Nine. I am ten years old. My sister Lisa and I have carefully constructed our play “office.” TV trays serve as our desks, little scraps of paper with neat, fourth-grade handwriting are our sales receipts, and our toy intercom phones keep the business running smoothly. I see my sister in my mind’s eye and feel the tenderness of sisterhood.
Eight. I am 17 years old. I watch as my mother and three youngest siblings drive away. I watch the taillights and my childhood become smaller and smaller. Although I remain with my father, sister, and brother, I have never felt more alone. I am now the grown-up in the house. By the time they reach the end of the block, I miss them fiercely.
Seven. I am 19 years old. I hold his warm hand in mine. Nervously, our lips meet. It is love. I know I will spend my life with him. I feel my heart bursting with newness and wonder. He tells me he loves me, too, and I believe.
Six. I am 21 years old. The blush pink of the blanket is pushed back, revealing our miracle. Her delicate fingers are tiny, yet grasp my finger with stubborn determination. A sign of what is yet to come. I breathe her in and know I will never be the same.
Five. I am 30 years old. I look around at the many familiar faces that are my family. They are smiling and happy. My brothers are there. My sisters are there. My mother and father are there. My cake is awash in the light of 30 candles. I feel complete.
Four. I am 40 years old. I turn over, reaching for the warmth and familiarity of his body and our 20 years together. I feel the steel-cold of the sheets instead. The emptiness of the bed and my heart fills every pore of my being. I feel hollow, vast, dark, and alone. After twenty years, I discover lost love. It is as if I have been abandoned in the middle of the ocean. I don’t know if I can stay afloat.
Three. I am 43 years old. My mother is desperately pounding at my apartment door. My head is throbbing and my voice does not come. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I see the bottles that have become my life. They are empty--like me. I feel hopeless.
Two. I am 44 years old. I am better. I feel something. It is small. One last dying ember hidden among the ashes that are my life. It waits to be re-ignited. Hesitantly, I let it lead me.
One. I am still 44 years old. It is New Year’s Eve. I am surrounded by love and kindness. I let the tears fall like confetti and with the last tear I let go of the past, surrendering completely. I take one last look behind me and see it all. Then, I turn, and face my future. It is 2010 and I am alive. Happy New Year.
Ten. I am four years old. My hair, wild and unruly, escapes in a bramble of curls beneath my father’s faded army helmet. My mother is unbelievably young. She holds a Polaroid camera, encouraging me to straighten my glasses and smile. My father sits behind her, on the sofa--his soft, young hands strumming the guitar I will forever see him with. I remember, and feel the warmth of innocence.
Nine. I am ten years old. My sister Lisa and I have carefully constructed our play “office.” TV trays serve as our desks, little scraps of paper with neat, fourth-grade handwriting are our sales receipts, and our toy intercom phones keep the business running smoothly. I see my sister in my mind’s eye and feel the tenderness of sisterhood.
Eight. I am 17 years old. I watch as my mother and three youngest siblings drive away. I watch the taillights and my childhood become smaller and smaller. Although I remain with my father, sister, and brother, I have never felt more alone. I am now the grown-up in the house. By the time they reach the end of the block, I miss them fiercely.
Seven. I am 19 years old. I hold his warm hand in mine. Nervously, our lips meet. It is love. I know I will spend my life with him. I feel my heart bursting with newness and wonder. He tells me he loves me, too, and I believe.
Six. I am 21 years old. The blush pink of the blanket is pushed back, revealing our miracle. Her delicate fingers are tiny, yet grasp my finger with stubborn determination. A sign of what is yet to come. I breathe her in and know I will never be the same.
Five. I am 30 years old. I look around at the many familiar faces that are my family. They are smiling and happy. My brothers are there. My sisters are there. My mother and father are there. My cake is awash in the light of 30 candles. I feel complete.
Four. I am 40 years old. I turn over, reaching for the warmth and familiarity of his body and our 20 years together. I feel the steel-cold of the sheets instead. The emptiness of the bed and my heart fills every pore of my being. I feel hollow, vast, dark, and alone. After twenty years, I discover lost love. It is as if I have been abandoned in the middle of the ocean. I don’t know if I can stay afloat.
Three. I am 43 years old. My mother is desperately pounding at my apartment door. My head is throbbing and my voice does not come. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I see the bottles that have become my life. They are empty--like me. I feel hopeless.
Two. I am 44 years old. I am better. I feel something. It is small. One last dying ember hidden among the ashes that are my life. It waits to be re-ignited. Hesitantly, I let it lead me.
One. I am still 44 years old. It is New Year’s Eve. I am surrounded by love and kindness. I let the tears fall like confetti and with the last tear I let go of the past, surrendering completely. I take one last look behind me and see it all. Then, I turn, and face my future. It is 2010 and I am alive. Happy New Year.
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