AI Generated Image: A Black woman looking ahead with a frustrated look while pondering a few photos she is holding. She is wearing gold hooped earrings, her hair is braided and pulled back into a bun, and there is a blurred background of what appears to be a home’s living room.
Memory hadn’t considered how life would be with Rodney. They were high school sweethearts. She thought going with the flow would be essential: stick with him, he’s a good guy, loves her, cares about her, and would do anything to appease her. But now that they’re both older, he is well . . . boring. She reminisces while sifting through wedding photos, shaking her head at their decision’s haste and considering the welcoming mat of divorce. Where would this lead them, though? Divorce is final and Rodney is a huge chunk of her life. He isn’t some man she decided to shack up with – they’ve invested time, love, effort, and work into each other. Rodney is . . . bigger than regret.
temporarily filled with regret as peace moves calmly into view
“I’ve named them, you know?” “Who?” “The squirrels that keep coming to the stoop. I’ve named them.” “You have, have you? Let’s hear the names!” “Darryl & Delilah.”
MacKenzie’s older sister shoots her an odd look — one that questions her name-choosing skills, but the younger sibling stands her ground.
“Darryl & Delilah!? Mack, why on earth would you . . .”
“It’s simple. Remember that song Mommy used to sing when I was like 5? The one by Billy Joel, ‘Just the Way You Are’? I hear that song every time I see them running around, gathering acorns, and hoarding them under the flower pot on our stoop. Their names fit them. They seem like a happy couple — one that can’t live without each other.”
Misha stares at her kid sister in total disbelief. She can’t believe what’s coming out of her mouth, but then again, she thinks it’s best not to question 11-year-old girls whose parents recently divorced. She continues to listen without judgment.
“I see Mommy and Daddy in them. Mommy rushing to gather all the acorns. Daddy hustling to the stoop to lift the flower pot so Mommy can place the acorns there. They make a great team!”
And then the tears fall. Misha watches her kid sister turn into a mush-mouth full of anger and resentment and pent-up sadness on the corner of Circle Way and Todd St. Divorce isn’t simply dividing their family, it is changing them in ways they never thought it would. MacKenzie is anthropomorphizing the squirrels in the neighborhood now. What’s next?!
“Mack . . . it’s okay to cry. You know that, right? It’s okay to just cry. You don’t have to make up stories or see Mom and Dad in the squirrels that use our stoop for storage. You can just . . . cry.”
MacKenzie shifts her thinking head to the left, bats her lashes slowly, and leans into her sister’s personal space. She whispers . . .
“I know. But it hurts less when I make up stories.”
Misha pulls her sister into a tight embrace, smooths back the wispy hair from her eyes, and kisses her forehead.
He used to call me baby, that was his way, until . . . Until he had to leave. I was twelve. Twelve years old, wondering what I did wrong. No one could tell me. I wasn’t old enough to be in the middle of the conversations birthed between adults. And as a Southerner, you listen to your elders. You heed their advice.
So, I thought my light had faded — if Daddy wasn’t calling me baby anymore . . . Who else would? Who else should? Was I even still deserving of that term of endearment?
My mom had been piecing together our puzzled lives. We had become the church feature — the company billboard for broken homes. They wanted me to tell the boys. To let my brothers know our family had collapsed. But how could I? I was still trying to figure out who was going to call me baby — still trying to find the reason why he had to leave.
I had an inquisitive mind so naturally, I wanted to know what went wrong and if I was it—the wrong that suddenly swarmed our home . . . was I it?!
I turned to my mom as I so often did during times of distress to perhaps pull the truth out of her . . . “Mom, what did I do?”
In the funk of a lead-ridden home, my words were useless. They did not exist.
I did . . . I did.
I still lived amongst the shadows of decrees and halves—“You’ll get them on this weekend, I’ll get them on that weekend . . .” And so on and furthermore. We were split in two. Halves of a whole. Soon to be halves of a half. Quartered. We had been made into pieces — cracked instantly on direct impact. No one would put us back together again.
I wasn’t old enough to be in the middle of the conversations birthed between adults.
Time shifted — we all grew up and out of our old selves. When I was nineteen years old, another girl was born. This one, you know very well. When she was sixteen, I realized, you had more years with her. You don’t forget her age. She doesn’t have to remind you. You’ve been to every recital, every honors night school function, and every church-affiliated soirée. I’ve often thought, it is better this way. She gives you purpose. She doesn’t question why you left — she doesn’t have to.
She could turn a corner and find you right there — waiting . . . waiting to hug her. Waiting to hold her. You had been the pillar in her dreams — strong enough for her to lean on — safe enough for her to discard her fears. I wish I had that. That . . . security and assurance. I dream of it to this day but it is not within my reach. That ship has long since sailed — I stand at the dock battered by the untimely waves.
I wandered far away, lost myself in the clouds above my head, searching for the years before the when that stultified my efforts in loving you and scattered all of us away from what was concrete. Nothing has been what I hoped it would be. Growing up without you—salty taste lingers in my mouth, a hint of envy . . . A bit of jealousy.
She had the traditional family unit— nuclear . . . Functional.
I’ve often thought, it is better this way. She gives you purpose. She doesn’t question why you left — she doesn’t have to.
The funny thing is, I say I am grown — I am mature. But truth be known, I still can’t talk about this without breaking down into a tear-consumed toddler who isn’t getting what she wants. And this, I am told, is normal or expected. Divorce. Divorce. Divorce squirms all up in my bones. I twirl the words on my tongue and the tears fall. They fall . . . I wonder if it does the same thing to you—it does not. It cannot.
And maybe, that’s why we’re estranged. That’s why we’re still holding on. No . . . That’s why I’m still holding on to pain and the moment you’ll once again call me baby.
he hovered over
her shoulders, kneading
the knots from left to right.
she’d been tense for several
weeks worrying about the
impending divorce and
placement of their children.
what happens to a family
when both parents
cheat on each other?
who broke whose heart?
what do you say to
everyone waiting for
the truth when all they’ve
heard are lies?
she breathed a hard batch
of air from her mouth
out to the ether.
the petrissage is always
the best part of her
massage therapy.
she’s in constant need
of getting the
kinks out of
her life.
The Twitter #vss365 prompt word for today is “petrissage” (a massage technique that involves kneading the body.)
A Cornered Gurl 
You must be logged in to post a comment.