dim light of the attic I can see her face is glowing red.
“I’m sorry, Mom. Do whatever you want with the fishing gear.”
“Would you like to keep the hat?” She nods to my head.
“Yeah, I would. Thanks.”
After hours of digging through the attic, deciding what to throw away, what she wants to keep, I plod home covered in dust
with cobwebs adorning my hair. I trudge through the door and beeline it for the couch, where I flop. I stretch out fully,
thinking about all the boxes lined up on the curb, waiting for the garbageman on Monday morning.
And just for the record, I’m a little heartsick at all the things Mom
doesn’t
want to hang on to—I mean, what was the point of saving baby teeth in the first place if all she’s going to do is throw them
away when I’m almost forty? Did she think I might want to make a necklace of them someday?
Is that what’s going to happen to me? My mind flashes to my own attic, where boxes of my children’s baby stuff clutter the
floor. What am I going to do with the silky blond strands of hair taped to each baby book under the heading “First Haircut”?
Will they want the memories I’ve collected when they grow up, or will the day come when Ari is helping me clean out the attic
so I can go live with Tank and his wife, Machine Gun? My lips twitch as humor returns, lifting my spirits a little.
First of all, the thought of Ari getting her manicured hands dirty is truly laughable, and Tommy would rather slide headfirst
into a vat of boiling oil than have me come live with him. The kid is counting the days until his eighteenth birthday as it
is.
Still, the question begs to be answered. What good does it do to build a lifetime of memories if they’re only going to be
tossed away like yesterday’s garbage?
The melancholy is weaving through me, first into my brain, then downward into my heart, then, as I try to ease the pain with
three scoops of rocky road ice cream, into my stomach. It doesn’t work. I can’t help but be swept away on a tide of childhood
memories. They’re so sweet. Those memories. I feel like Ralphie from
A Christmas Story
and I consider, for a moment, writing my life story. Okay, so maybe the time I had chickenpox and Dad, Mom, and Charley put
on the entire
Nutcracker
ballet to ease the pain of missing out on my school’s field trip wouldn’t mean anything to the rest of the world, but to
me, those memories are priceless.
With a sigh, I toss the bowl into the sink and head upstairs to shower off the dust. As the steaming water flows over me,
I’m struck with the idea that all I truly have left of my childhood are the sweet memories my parents created for me. My mind
goes to my own children. What have I built for them to remind them of me when they grow up? Days and nights at the computer,
fast-food meals in the living room while I sit with my laptop, weekend plans gone awry because of an unexpected line edit
that has to be attended to in three days. It seems as though the only fun my kids have is when they’re with Rick.
This thought weakens my knees. There’s no denying that Rick was a sorry excuse for a husband. But guess what? He’s the better
parent. I think I’m going to be sick. I slide
The Mirror Has Two Faces
into the VCR and crawl into bed with the remote. How did Rick become the fun one? He’s the one building camping memories
with our kids. Of course, for all I know, that could be his way of compensating for breaking their hearts by leaving me when
they were little. Furthermore, it’s easy to be the fun one when you only have the kids two and a half days a week.
I listen to the music signaling the opening credits, but my brain is focused on that list I made out earlier in the week.
Number three on the list: Reconnect with my children. Excitement begins to build as I realize what this new “me” is going
to mean to my precious offspring. I imagine their joy, their utter relief that I’ve
“I’m sorry, Mom. Do whatever you want with the fishing gear.”
“Would you like to keep the hat?” She nods to my head.
“Yeah, I would. Thanks.”
After hours of digging through the attic, deciding what to throw away, what she wants to keep, I plod home covered in dust
with cobwebs adorning my hair. I trudge through the door and beeline it for the couch, where I flop. I stretch out fully,
thinking about all the boxes lined up on the curb, waiting for the garbageman on Monday morning.
And just for the record, I’m a little heartsick at all the things Mom
doesn’t
want to hang on to—I mean, what was the point of saving baby teeth in the first place if all she’s going to do is throw them
away when I’m almost forty? Did she think I might want to make a necklace of them someday?
Is that what’s going to happen to me? My mind flashes to my own attic, where boxes of my children’s baby stuff clutter the
floor. What am I going to do with the silky blond strands of hair taped to each baby book under the heading “First Haircut”?
Will they want the memories I’ve collected when they grow up, or will the day come when Ari is helping me clean out the attic
so I can go live with Tank and his wife, Machine Gun? My lips twitch as humor returns, lifting my spirits a little.
First of all, the thought of Ari getting her manicured hands dirty is truly laughable, and Tommy would rather slide headfirst
into a vat of boiling oil than have me come live with him. The kid is counting the days until his eighteenth birthday as it
is.
Still, the question begs to be answered. What good does it do to build a lifetime of memories if they’re only going to be
tossed away like yesterday’s garbage?
The melancholy is weaving through me, first into my brain, then downward into my heart, then, as I try to ease the pain with
three scoops of rocky road ice cream, into my stomach. It doesn’t work. I can’t help but be swept away on a tide of childhood
memories. They’re so sweet. Those memories. I feel like Ralphie from
A Christmas Story
and I consider, for a moment, writing my life story. Okay, so maybe the time I had chickenpox and Dad, Mom, and Charley put
on the entire
Nutcracker
ballet to ease the pain of missing out on my school’s field trip wouldn’t mean anything to the rest of the world, but to
me, those memories are priceless.
With a sigh, I toss the bowl into the sink and head upstairs to shower off the dust. As the steaming water flows over me,
I’m struck with the idea that all I truly have left of my childhood are the sweet memories my parents created for me. My mind
goes to my own children. What have I built for them to remind them of me when they grow up? Days and nights at the computer,
fast-food meals in the living room while I sit with my laptop, weekend plans gone awry because of an unexpected line edit
that has to be attended to in three days. It seems as though the only fun my kids have is when they’re with Rick.
This thought weakens my knees. There’s no denying that Rick was a sorry excuse for a husband. But guess what? He’s the better
parent. I think I’m going to be sick. I slide
The Mirror Has Two Faces
into the VCR and crawl into bed with the remote. How did Rick become the fun one? He’s the one building camping memories
with our kids. Of course, for all I know, that could be his way of compensating for breaking their hearts by leaving me when
they were little. Furthermore, it’s easy to be the fun one when you only have the kids two and a half days a week.
I listen to the music signaling the opening credits, but my brain is focused on that list I made out earlier in the week.
Number three on the list: Reconnect with my children. Excitement begins to build as I realize what this new “me” is going
to mean to my precious offspring. I imagine their joy, their utter relief that I’ve
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