Cracked and Glued

Random things trigger memories and sometimes the best way to make it make sense is to write it out.  That happened today and now I have a story to tell, but I need to preface this with a very important point: I do not share these stories for sympathy or attention.  My past is a part of what makes me who I am; the good, bad, and ugly.  I feel like I understand people better when I hear their stories, and that's what I hope for when I tell mine.  So please keep that in mind if you choose to read further.

When I was moving my Mom into residential care, she had a storage unit full of stuff, and she gave me the task of clearing it out.  I brought it all to my house and had her go through it to decide what to keep and what to sell or donate.  Of the sell/donate items, I was given her blessing to keep what I wanted, so I did.  What little I chose to keep immediately got tucked away in my bedroom closet, or stored in the catch-all spot in our media room, and forgotten.  The latter happens to be the place where my son found the item that triggered this post.

I recall this cloche vividly, though I was never particularly fond of it as a child.  It sat near the TV in every house we lived in since the mid-to-late 80s.  I'm not entirely sure why I kept it at the time, but I can guess it had something to do with it being a tangible piece of my childhood, which is a pretty rare thing.  Most material possessions or keepsakes have long since been lost or tossed.  

My son carried it to me today, asking why it's empty and if we can put food in it.  I tried to explain that's not what it is used for, that it's just for decoration, and then took it out of his hands to put it away.  As my palm landed on one of the cracks in the lid, my mind raced backward to a time when it wasn't cracked.  I thought back to when it was in pristine condition, and was one of my Mom's most prized pieces of decor.  No matter how many places we moved into, it always sat proudly on a shelf on the entertainment center with a doily underneath.  I assume it was a gift from my Grandma Wilson because one of her poems is written inside.  And I can assume it was a wedding or anniversary gift, based on the content of the poem.

If I think back to when it was whole, I'm also immediately reminded of it being thrown in the midst of one of my Mom and her husband's explosive fights, and the crashing sound it made when it hit the ground.  That single memory conjures up countless others. I remember how they'd fight and how I'd silently gauge their tones in anticipation for how it would escalate.  I got very good at predicting when the yelling was about to turn into smashing up the house, and when that would turn into physical violence.  I'm reminded of how myself, and sometimes my brother, would cautiously and quietly help pick up whatever got broken, trying so hard not to be seen as we erased all evidence of what just happened. I remember being extremely aware of my face, knowing that any sideways glances or furrowed brows could cause either of them to feel guilt and would reignite the fire, but direct it right at me.  It felt like walking a tightrope.  

After the lid of the cloche was glued back together, my Mom adjusted how she displayed it so that the cracks were off to the side, making them less obvious.  She didn't want anyone to see the brokenness of the decor, or of our family.  After a certain amount of time, she couldn't hide either, but she always tried.  To this day, she won't admit to anything unless it's to paint herself as the valiant protector of her children against a tyrannical husband.  The truth is, she didn't do anything to protect us. She taught us to hide the cracks, and pretend as if everything wasn't being precariously held together by super glue. 

In spite of the bad memories, I guess I kept this piece of decor because it is a stark reminder of what I grew up in vs where I am now.  When I look at the haphazard way it was put back together, I marvel at how something that was once in pieces on the floor of a trailer has managed to remain intact for decades.  I can profoundly relate to that. We've both been broken, and could have easily stayed that way; exposing our sharp edges and cutting anyone who dared to touch us.  The fact that my kids won't ever witness a tempestuous fight, or be left to pick up shattered pieces of household decor, is a testament to my own healing.  I've got a long way to go, even at 40, but I'm holding it together.  Me and my cloche.