Glass Curtain

The house sold. I guess you knew that. I supposed you’re watching, from wherever you are.

Where are you?

The kids are doing well. My oldest just finished college and started a job at Sunoco. When he calls he says things like pipeline and acquisition. His voice delights me, even if I’m not always sure what he’s talking about.

My middle son, Charlie, is a pitcher. Every week, he stands on the mound and battles. Every week, I hold my breath.

Rose is eighteen. Remember her? She is fair like our side of the family – blonde hair with blue eyes that search your face for answers I never seem to have. Out of all of them, she has traveled the furthest, to row crew for the Fighting Irish.

And my youngest son, Henry – you met him a handful of times – he’s a junior in high school. Tall, skinny, sweet, and silly. He would have made you laugh.

Jack is thriving. He has a job. He’s taking college classes. Never once, since the day he was diagnosed with autism, did I imagine this could happen.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this stuff now. I never told you when you were alive. I couldn’t seem to break through the glass curtain that ruled every conversation.

The same glass shields me from Jack. And while your diagnosis is different, the presentation is the same. Anxiety, paranoia, a tendency to conspiracy theories mixed with a smidge of righteousness. For him, we introduce all the things your generation rejected: counseling, medication, open conversation. I refuse to let his spirit be ravaged. I refuse to lose him to it.

The last time I saw you, you asked me what I thought God looked like. I knew you were transitioning then – beginning the process of moving from this world to another. I perched, awkward and uncertain on edge of your hospital bed. I thought about holding your hand, but we were never those kind of people.

Where are you now? Every once in a while, I wonder.

Grief is loud until it is quiet.

Estrangement is never the first choice. This is the part people don’t seem to understand.

It is not a teenage huff, all slammed doors and rolled eyes. It’s not because we disagreed about politics or religion.

There was no line we drew in the sand. There was a falling out that led to space, and our gap never quite bridged again.

It was not what I wanted. But the toxicity bloomed between us, the way a spill on the rug turns to a crimson stain.

Estrangement is many things. It is wandering by the card aisle on Mother’s Day but leaving the store empty-handed. It’s standing on the periphery of your friends and their mothers, wondering if there is something inherently lacking in you. 

It is watching trays of sandwiches arrive when your mother-in-law succumbs to cancer, and deep silence when your own mother passes away. There is a tightening in your throat – not jealousy, or even bitterness. Something more akin to sadness. For months, the sight of ham and cheese on a roll can level you.

It’s a heightened alert for your own children, worrying if the legacy of brain wiring may land within one of them.

Where are you now?

I hope you are surrounded by your favorite things.

Rhododendrons in full bloom.

A full bottle of your favorite perfume.

Books and novels and movies.

I hope you are finally free.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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