Throughout the month of March, I am participating in the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge, an event hosted by the team at Two Writing Teachers. Every day in March, I will share a story and comment on the stories of other participants. Please join us in writing, sharing, reading, and commenting!
Memory works in funny ways. I can barely remember last week. Even yesterday is a little blurry. Who was it who visited? Oh, yes. I've got it. But honestly, had to coach the synapses to fire.
And yet, when I called my mom and she shared about her mailbox having been hit this afternoon, floodgates from 22 years and 338 days ago were wide open, specific and visceral memories pouring through. Mailboxes are triggers for me and for my mother. A smashed mailbox began a series of events that changed our lives forever. I understand.
My father was still using his crutches on the day some raucous teens drove down my parents' street on a mission to smash as many mailboxes with a baseball bat as they could. It was spring. Maybe it was a dare. Sometimes the what-if game plays with me and I think about what if they'd had a party to go to or a place to hang out. What if they'd had a test the next day they cared about or a special someone to snuggle in a basement couch somewhere. Doesn't matter. They didn't. And instead, they smashed mailboxes for laughs and ha-has.
For reasons I do understand-- I inherited the controlling tendency to supervise and offer my two or three cents when others are taking on a task that is usually mine-- my father couldn't stand my brother in my father's basement fixing my father's mailbox, and yeah, he decided to head down and provide mailbox-fixing advice. Except at the top of the stairs, he led with his foot and not his crutches. The cement floor was a a terrible landing pad for a headfirst fall down the flight. My brother saved his life in ways I won't go into here.
I remember where I was when my mother called. (In the garage watching our three daughters play on the driveway.)
I remember what I was wearing. (My gray jumper and white t-shirt. I was 9+ months pregnant with our fourth daughter.)
I remember what my mom said. (Something's happened to Dad. He's taken a bad fall. You need to come.)
I remember leaning on the car to catch my breath, finding the words to explain to my in-laws who were there that I had to go and Garth would be home soon, driving the mile to my parent's house, watching my brother lie in the grass and cry. I remember what my brother was wearing and how his wife held him in the back seat of the car as my mom's neighbor drove us to the hospital so we could meet up with the helicopter that was transporting my father. I remember helping my mom wash the blood from her hands at the hospital as we waited in the neuro ICU waiting room.
I know exactly why my mom was traumatized tonight when I talked to her on the day when an old man, for reasons he can't explain, knocked her mailbox down. I'm not sure how she had the courage to bungee cord it together, and in many ways and for many reasons, I wish she hadn't, but I understand.
Tomorrow, my husband will head there first thing, and he'll fix the mailbox. Maybe the floodgates will close up again. Mailboxes are triggers.
Memory works in funny ways.
I understand.
Melanie, this is so raw. All the tiny details are so fresh and specific. This is emotional and heartbreaking. -Jess
ReplyDeleteIt's the imagery you use that have brought me to tears- helping your mom wash her hands in the ICU waiting room, and your grandfather leading with his foot, your brother in the grass... you write with such power that can transfer your emotion to everyone when we read this.
ReplyDeleteOh no, this is such a tragic memory, no wonder it opened the floodgates for you both.
ReplyDeleteThis tells a frightening story, and I tremble as I write this comment. I can only imagine the depth of feelings you have. Thank you for sharing this - I hope the telling brought you some comfort. It is a beautiful piece.
ReplyDeleteYOUR post has ME in tears as I relive every moment of that awful day and the depth of frightening memories smashed mailboxes evoke. I do hope write it down has given you some relief, but I also know that those triggers are not likely to ever go away. I'm thinking of you and thankful for bungees.
ReplyDeleteYep, as some of the comments have said, this got me. Being too young to really remember anything other than my parents being scared, it feels good and important for me to be able to read this. I'm not far from where you were! Really hard for me to imagine. I'm sorry you had to go through that.
ReplyDeleteMelanie - I read in mounting dread, fearing what was to come, and closed my eyes at the point where your father led with his foot instead of the crutches. Pure horror and a reeling brain - which is why you remember every detail so vividly. I know this feeling. The way you reference the mailbox again at the end is a zinger, that simple "Mailboxes are triggers." Rightfully so. People like those vandals do not think of the scope and scale of their poor choices. A profound post - you are so courageous to write it!
ReplyDeleteMelanie, this is such an open and honest piece, and I could feel all of the emotions woven throughout. Thank you for your vulnerability in writing and sharing these moments.
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