First?
I did an interview with the fabulous JR of Sex and the Single Dad.
Part of his series on Magnificent Moms.
Shut up. I am magnificent.
I so am.
Back here on Pretty All True?
I am visiting my aunt.
My father’s sister.
She lives in Chicago.
A long Greyhound bus ride from the Western side of Michigan. All by myself.
I am perhaps eleven.
These few visits to spend time with my aunt alone are the highlights of my childhood. She adores me. I worship her.
Her large apartment is filled with treasures gathered from her travels around the world.
Her long hallway’s walls are lined with black and white framed photos of her time in the theater.
My father appears in some of these photos . . . or not my father, but a man I recognize as having been my father at some point.
I love these photos.
I want them.
My aunt is tiny. Tiny and beautiful and glamorous.
She is all that I know I am never going to be, but I pretend. I run my hands over her closets full of clothing. Press my face to their scented luxury. Slip my feet into her shoes. Slide her jewelry around my neck and my arms.
Everything about my aunt’s life is what I want for myself.
I want heavy crystal glasses from which to drink my orange juice. I want clean crisp sheets on my bed. I want dishes of candy that no one ever eats to rest upon small gorgeous tables. I want closets filled with things that are only mine. I want a bathroom filled with lotions and make-up and perfume. I want barstools that swivel. I want the globe that opens up. I want the seltzer water dispenser. I want a pantry filled with food.
I want a hallway of photos.
I want.
My aunt is funny and brilliant and engaging. She speaks to me as though I am an adult, and I love her for this. She does not ask me about my life, and I love her for this even as I desperately want her to inquire.
We pretend together that her life is enough. We will share that life.
And what a life it is.
She takes me to the theater. She takes me to the ballet. She takes me to restaurants. She takes me to the movies. She takes me on a boat ride down the Chicago River.
I want this life.
She flirts with men everywhere we go.
She takes me to bars.
She drinks a lot.
Everywhere we go, everyone loves her.
I want to be her more than I have ever wanted anything.
I want.
She drinks a lot.
She is the most fabulous person I have ever known.
She gets louder and flirtier and more outrageous.
She drinks a lot.
I want to be her.
I want to live with her.
I fantasize about this a lot.
Toward the end of one of these visits, I sit with my aunt on her small balcony. It is late at night. We stare up at the stars. She is all drunken emotion and love. She hugs me and tells me I am beautiful and smart. She tells me that wonderful things await me in this life. She tells me that I am special. She tells me that difficult times mold and shape a person, and that I am lucky to be getting my difficult times out of the way so early in my life. She tells me that I should spend my time becoming the smartest, most educated person I can be. I should cherish the hardship of my life, because it will make me great.
She tells me that I should be prepared, because life can change at any moment.
I am holding my breath.
I want her to offer to change my life in this moment.
I am filled with want.
I hold my breath.
She stares up at the sky.
Points out the sparkling constellations visible in the dark black night.
Pours herself another drink.
Stares up at the stars.
One of them is moving. Too slowly to be an airplane. Maybe a satellite.
My aunt is obsessed with the moving star.
She stands and stares into the sky. Is it really moving? She holds her arm outstretched before her to gauge the light’s movement against her stationary hand.
It is moving.
She begins to speak of UFOs.
Not a conversation but an angry paranoid hostile rant.
Her face distorts and comes too close to mine.
The world is ending, and I am too stupid to recognize this fact, apparently.
I am no longer holding my breath.
But I breathe as quietly as I can.
I breathe in and out . . . my aunt’s heady perfume fills the air.
A scent that is unique to her in my mind.
But the air I breathe as she rants?
Familiar air.
Yes.
I want to disappear.
I want.
I love when you update in the middle of my day. Just when I need a break from mind-numbing work there you are. Love.
Well, thank you!
I post every day, but I can’t punch a time-clock.
My daughters are home this week, and that has required adjustments.
Plus?
Christmas is coming.
Were you aware?
Ack!
The fact you not only survived but are the person you are today, especially such a fine mother, is a tribute to your inner strength. It in no way excuses the way you were robbed of a blissful childhood. *sob*
Thanks, you.
It is one of the ironies of my life that I am who I am because of what went before.
And I am quite fond of who I am.
Know what? Your childhood sucked ass. You were robbed. I propose a do-over.
But…
WOW did you turn out incredible for it/in spite of it.
I love you.
Guess what?
There are no do-overs.
But there is the chance to get it right with my own family.
I propose to do that.
Love you, babe.
Very much.
The family we create IS our do-over.
Yes.
Yes, it is.
That was so moving and special. I almost felt like an intruder witnessing a very private moment.
Love.
I am sometimes funny.
And sometimes outrageous.
And sometimes I share deeper things.
I like to mix it up here on Pretty All True.
I am glad you were here for this moment.
Thank you.
You have a way with words. Whether its funny, outrageous, deep or pensive. It is a gift.
Thank you, lovely you.
Thank you very much.
I am somehow without things to say anywhere today, but suffice it to say: I was here. I was reading. And I have been in a place a little like there.
Hello, you.
A smallish space, that space we have both inhabited.
Love.
Kris
Was it difficult to learn to trust people not to “snap” the way your father and aunt did? How did you recover to have a trusting relationship?
I am seriously wanting to know this….because obviously after serial abuse you have become someone who has not just survived but thrived.
Honestly?
I do not trust easily.
I married well.
That has made all the difference.
Mark is all that I am not.
And all that I need.
That realization. How sad to suddenly “know”.
But? You are special and smart and beautiful. And you do have wonderful things.
Thank you.
My life has turned out to be not what I imagined it would be.
Far better than that.
smells. they keep us hostage. they creep up in our memory and can stop something short. just by a simple sniff.
people underestimate the power of smells all the time.
The only possession of my aunt’s that was passed along to me when she died?
Many years ago, now.
A small leather drawstring bag that contains an almost-empty bottle of her perfume.
I keep it in my nightstand drawer next to my bed.
It smells of my aunt and brings back only happy memories.
There are other less-happy memories . . . but that scent?
Brings me joy.
Every time.
I really like these serious posts of yours the best…you have a beautiful way of telling stories between the lines. It’s times like this that I actually wish I could talk to you. My childhood was NOTHING like this…but I feel like I get you. Just saying…
That’s all that I want to accomplish with my writing.
To connect.
Thank you for that.
Is that the first time you saw that side of your aunt, or were there times before? I felt/feel that way about my brother. As a child, he was my favorite brother. Older enough that we didn’t normally fight. He was fun. Until he wasn’t. Until he snapped. And then I wished I was anywhere but in his presence.
My aunt was much like my father in her drinking and her moods.
Less often directed at me.
But very much like my father.
I knew that.
I had seen that many times.
But always?
I wanted to believe otherwise.
Always.
Maybe it’s too early to string a sentence together. Or maybe it’s just a case of, “What could one possibly say that would be fitting or worthy?”
So I’ll just leave it at ‘wow’.
And that now I want a seltzer water dispenser too…..
Thank you very much.
I will take “Wow.”
I love Wow.
Thank you.
You. Are. Fucking. Rad. End of story.
Thanks, babe.
I appreciate that.
Very much.
You are an amazing woman.
You and the stories of your childhood remind me a great deal of my mom. You and my mother are close in age (she’s got you by three years.)
You both went through a lot as kids … And you both turned out to be amazing women.
I look up to her and I’m sure you’d be someone I’d look up to if we knew each other in real life.
Yeah. So amazing.
Thank you.
I am honored to remind you of your mother.
Honored.
There are times when I visit you when I don’t know who to be.
Am I your friend? Yes? Then I will tell you that I am so proud of you for choosing each and every day to be better…to be kinder…to be loving…to be happy.
As I said in the comments on the interview, you always leave me with hope.
Am I an appreciator of the true art of writing, someone who has both studied and taught writing? Yes? Then I will tell you that your writing is exquisite. The style that you have crafted for yourself is unique, rich, and enveloping.
There is a cadence to your writing that lulls and soothes me.
Much love to you…this was beautiful.
Nichole -
You can be both of those things . . .
A friend and an exquisite writer.
Both.
Thank you.
Kris
Nichole told me to come over and read you today because of a convo we were having on twitter. About not feeling special as a child. I’m glad you got to feel special. It is such a gift. Even if it had a flip side to it.
Thanks, you.
And sometimes that flip side?
Makes it easier to appreciate the special moments when they happen.
Sometimes.