afloat with Kirk as I battled the knot in my stomach. Kirk droned softly on, supplying Gabe with family divulgences, oblivious to MawMaw’s stricken features and Papa’s concern for her, all barely discernable, all screaming at me.
When MawMaw abruptly rose and went into the house, Papa closely trailed her.
I didn’t follow because I knew that MawMaw’s grief, though heavy, did not begin to approximate mine. And while her reactions held, to some degree, choices, mine did not.
“I wish they wouldn’t do that.” The gray night soaked up Gabe’s quiet words. Blinking fireflies punctuated them in a surreal way. He’d not been as preoccupied as I thought.
“What?” Kirk asked, his silhouette in the darkness lean and long and tense. I’d discussed little of the family war with
my husband, hoping it would go away, not wanting to give him place to take sides, knowing I’d be hurt further.
“Not letting loose of – things,” my soft-spoken uncle replied.
After long moments, Kirk replied. “Yeah.” I realized then that Kirk knew. He could not know me and not know.
Despite Daddy’s compulsion to air his in-law grievances within earshot of anybody who’d listen, I still trusted Kirk to not allow my – our – turf to be polluted by it all. He’d sensed my desperation and remained as impartial as possible. A difficult thing, especially on those long afternoon male-bonding drives with Daddy. He must have felt torn many times.
I swallowed an egg-sized lump and lay my head back against the oak headrest, rocking harder and snuggling Heather, now swaddled in her blanket, nuzzled to me like a second skin. Seemed my kin were destined to hate. In that moment, I grieved for the joy and contentment of young years, when love was a fact and flowed freely among family.
Oh, how I despised their hatred, one that now tainted my affections with guilt, choking spontaneity and pleasure.
Under all that lay the jagged rawness of my insignificance that rendered me invisible and soundless in their war arena, where I wailed and howled forlornly for family solidarity. It was a horrible, suffocating place of fetid emotions. A place where Daddy and MawMaw and Papa never saw nor heard beyond their vendettas and principles .
So there, on that little porch, with Biltmore Castle glowing like a thousand Christmas trees from the black velvet distance, helplessness snaked its way inside me, and on the wings of fireflies, my hope – that forgiveness would restore my family – took flight.
CHAPTER FOUR
“A Time to be born…”
Looking back, I can’t recall exactly when Kirk’s peaceful surface began to ripple. Certainly, one parallel change was that Kirk stopped wanting to go to church. Oh, occasionally we went, but when we did, Kirk wasn’t really there. His resistance deeply affected my own commitment. Nobody can wordlessly resist as vigorously as Kirk Crenshaw. Perhaps the restiveness had always been there, just on the perimeter of our happiness, but the wonderful love and laughter we shared, and now, little Heather, all had somehow kept it at bay.
Ironically, it was the laughter that began to unearth it, little by little.
Kirk one day dropped a pan of leftover rice on the floor as we cleaned up, then skidded and fell butt first into the heap of it. I leaned to help him up and burst into giggles.
It wasn’t until he shook my hand from his arm as though it were a spider that I realized something was wrong. When I saw his stormy face, I nearly panicked.
“Are you hurt, honey?” I asked, standing awkwardly aside, paralyzed by insecurity.
He didn’t reply, just set his icy gaze straight ahead and, gripping the sink ledge, hoisted himself up onto his feet. I began to brush the seat of his pants, but he elbowed me aside and peeled off his jeans, marched to the bedroom closet and tossed them into the laundry hamper.
“Kirk?” I approached him cautiously, as is my nature in the wake of a storm.
He looked at me then, his
When MawMaw abruptly rose and went into the house, Papa closely trailed her.
I didn’t follow because I knew that MawMaw’s grief, though heavy, did not begin to approximate mine. And while her reactions held, to some degree, choices, mine did not.
“I wish they wouldn’t do that.” The gray night soaked up Gabe’s quiet words. Blinking fireflies punctuated them in a surreal way. He’d not been as preoccupied as I thought.
“What?” Kirk asked, his silhouette in the darkness lean and long and tense. I’d discussed little of the family war with
my husband, hoping it would go away, not wanting to give him place to take sides, knowing I’d be hurt further.
“Not letting loose of – things,” my soft-spoken uncle replied.
After long moments, Kirk replied. “Yeah.” I realized then that Kirk knew. He could not know me and not know.
Despite Daddy’s compulsion to air his in-law grievances within earshot of anybody who’d listen, I still trusted Kirk to not allow my – our – turf to be polluted by it all. He’d sensed my desperation and remained as impartial as possible. A difficult thing, especially on those long afternoon male-bonding drives with Daddy. He must have felt torn many times.
I swallowed an egg-sized lump and lay my head back against the oak headrest, rocking harder and snuggling Heather, now swaddled in her blanket, nuzzled to me like a second skin. Seemed my kin were destined to hate. In that moment, I grieved for the joy and contentment of young years, when love was a fact and flowed freely among family.
Oh, how I despised their hatred, one that now tainted my affections with guilt, choking spontaneity and pleasure.
Under all that lay the jagged rawness of my insignificance that rendered me invisible and soundless in their war arena, where I wailed and howled forlornly for family solidarity. It was a horrible, suffocating place of fetid emotions. A place where Daddy and MawMaw and Papa never saw nor heard beyond their vendettas and principles .
So there, on that little porch, with Biltmore Castle glowing like a thousand Christmas trees from the black velvet distance, helplessness snaked its way inside me, and on the wings of fireflies, my hope – that forgiveness would restore my family – took flight.
CHAPTER FOUR
“A Time to be born…”
Looking back, I can’t recall exactly when Kirk’s peaceful surface began to ripple. Certainly, one parallel change was that Kirk stopped wanting to go to church. Oh, occasionally we went, but when we did, Kirk wasn’t really there. His resistance deeply affected my own commitment. Nobody can wordlessly resist as vigorously as Kirk Crenshaw. Perhaps the restiveness had always been there, just on the perimeter of our happiness, but the wonderful love and laughter we shared, and now, little Heather, all had somehow kept it at bay.
Ironically, it was the laughter that began to unearth it, little by little.
Kirk one day dropped a pan of leftover rice on the floor as we cleaned up, then skidded and fell butt first into the heap of it. I leaned to help him up and burst into giggles.
It wasn’t until he shook my hand from his arm as though it were a spider that I realized something was wrong. When I saw his stormy face, I nearly panicked.
“Are you hurt, honey?” I asked, standing awkwardly aside, paralyzed by insecurity.
He didn’t reply, just set his icy gaze straight ahead and, gripping the sink ledge, hoisted himself up onto his feet. I began to brush the seat of his pants, but he elbowed me aside and peeled off his jeans, marched to the bedroom closet and tossed them into the laundry hamper.
“Kirk?” I approached him cautiously, as is my nature in the wake of a storm.
He looked at me then, his
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