“The greatest tragedy of the family is the unlived lives of the parents.”
― Carl Gustav Jung
I
My memory includes a cloud of smoke, vaporizing her hair and sticking to her hands. An occasional laugh that got caught in her nose. Red lipstick. When her first born came she was a teenager from the farms, and he arrived curled up like a basket. They had to break his legs to get him out. Her fourth son died shortly after birth. In between, there were two sons whose names rhymed, and a daughter who aspired.
II
We were in a room indoors with lawn chairs when I met you. Inexplicably, you told me about your psychiatrist and how he threw “two round pillows” in your lap. You also told me a family secret about your pre-marriage pregnancy. You lit a cigarette with a fancy lighter. Your son excused himself and went upstairs to sleep. I folded my ankles as if it would keep all those secrets in.
III
I don’t remember talking to you about anything. I remember only stories being told about you, even though you were pictured at every holiday, beaming over the turkey with a cigarette like a thought balloon. What did you think about all that? The men in the family were violent in secret, and maybe sexually suggestive. Your lipstick wasn’t pretty, but it kept your face in check.
IV
Later the things took over. When they broke, you would buy new ones. Instead of washing clothes or dishes, you shopped in town or just quit worrying about it. Every week you had your hair done and it looked terrific. When you smoked it made you smell better than if you had restrained yourself. In a cheap Chinese restaurant you ordered a Rob Roy, dry, slowly and with emphasis.
V
Your son drove a pink Mustang. Your daughter went to Peru. Your other son walked from Portland, Oregon to Salem, Oregon on the side of the road to protest services for the disabled. Your husband died of a massive heart attack in his fifties. He smoked like a house burning down.
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