On Hinges

A memory for Spencer's vault of unspeakable sadness...Alex doesn't always like when someone has a different idea of what they want to do. Spencer could fill a whole chasm of space with the grief he has lived with and through;
but chooses to be happy anyway! I L.O.V.E. him! California 2008.

The other night Logan -who admittedly had a rough time at cub scouts- sighed heavily and said, “What happened at scouts goes into the vault of unspeakable memories I’d rather forget.” He snuggled closer to me, pushing his head into the crook of my arm (his favorite position for cuddling at night – one he’s held since birth- effectively cutting off all circulation.) “What other memories are in your vault?” I wondered. “Well, there’s the time Spencer smashed his finger in the door…” he said rubbing his chin like I imagine a psychologist would. “That was sad.” I agreed, “And scary!” Logan amended. “What else,” I asked, pulling the blanket closer. “The other memory in the vault is the time I accidentally stepped on a duckling in Bear World.” “I don’t think I know about that?” I said, pulling him closer. “It was a dark day for sure!” He begins. “I was in the petting zoo, holding a duckling, and the mama duck started getting all nervous and adjitated, so I put the duckling down and was trying to herd him to his mom when another duckling ran under my foot, and I accidentally stepped on him. I went and told the zoo keeper what happened, and…..silence. They said nothing but just starred at me. The silence was like a poison to my mind. I kept thinking, ‘stupid stupid six year old!’ I’ve wondered about that poor duckling’s life –or lack of life- many times. I wish we could keep the vault of all the things that make us sad or upset closed. But the door keeps popping open. Mom, why are the happy memories harder to remember than memories that make us upset?”

The vault. We all own one. Mine, is the size of a bank. And, I confess, I sometimes wish it was located in Gringwalls (the mythical goblin guarded bank of Harry Potter fame) and I would need to acquire a dragon and polyjuice potion to access it. But, alas, just like Logan, my door keeps popping open, sometimes at the strangest moments. And once open, there is no three headed dog to guard my secrets, to keep the rush of emotion from surging towards me (I imagine, sometimes it surges like the mist that killed all the first borns in The Ten Commandment movie I used to watch every Easter. The mist is thick as night, heavy with unshed tears, unstoppable. And always it would seem, I am fresh out of lamb’s blood). Everyone has regrets, sorrows, playground arguments, failed projects, and awkward parenting moments. We all have our vaults that seem to compress our souls, weigh down our joints, and keep our lungs from fully expanding. Vault doors we keep pushing shut, because unspeakable memories have a way of rendering us catatonic, and of course it’s hard to make peanut butter and jam sandwiches and pull off the crusts if you’re a living zombie—which would never do in my house – . So we shut the doors to our vaults and deal with them peripherally, because of course delving in –especially into events that you cannot change- often overcomes all other thought or function.

Car rides with Alex....also often belong in the vault of unspeakable sadness.
I love to say to Logan, "If only I could tell how you really felt!" No need to guess with him. 2008

So, like everyone, I have tried to shove those moments of grief away from me. I’ve pushed them towards the safe, willed the door shut, tried to wrap it in chains and padlocked it with –not the $1.98 paddalock I would normally buy, but the $24.00 variety. Nevertheless, the hinges always creak, grief creased in the seams as it opens, and sorrow seeps like water through the cracks, promising a flood is coming. I am an optimist. I believe in happy endings. I believe the good guys always eventually win. I like to laugh, I seek the good. I work to embrace moments of hope. But, I am exhausted. And so when sorrow creeps upon me like unexpected sunburn, cruel in its intensity, (especially when all I was doing was building sandcastles in the sun with my kids). I want to cry, “Unfair!” when the red hot pinch is felt along the folds in my neck as I turn towards the ice cream stand. And I know at once, the door in my soul is gaping open. But here is what life has taught me about vaults: You have to open the door to put new unspeakable memories in, and when the vault’s open, it’s hard not to be consumed by the choking ash of mourning; the silt of it heavy in the lungs. When I opened my vault recently, I breathed through the ashes of one memory: Alex in third grade coming home and telling me the teacher said he couldn’t kick the balls at recess anymore. “Why not!” I’d demanded, incensed. “Because I kick the balls, and nobody kicks them back.” He answered on a sigh. My lungs stung when I looked further in the vault and remembered the furtive glance Spencer gave me at our Halloween party (in a new city Alex didn’t want to move to) before Alex announced that nobody here is welcome at our house or will ever be our friends. (I had waited a beat, and said, “who wants’ guacamole?”) Oh, my whole chest ached when I caught, near the back of the cool metal, the memory of me (mother, protector) grabbing a package of bungee cords from a Wal Mart shelf to help with our move. And I wished all over again, that I could have put it back on the shelf to grow dusty, and avoided the accident that cost Spencer 90% of the vision in his right eye. I sigh through the flickering vision of me, standing at the windows of a restaurant on Town Square in Jackson Hole watching two boys Alex’s age get off the bus to explore the square on their own, and maybe for the first time, realized Alex would never do that as a tween. Never beg for an extra fifteen minutes at the mall or money for pizza with his friends. All those rituals forgotten. Wasted.

Spencer has always been the best communicator! 2009

And the thing that’s hardest about grief is how it tangles in the laces of your shoes until you get tripped up on something as inconsequential as a Facebook photo of a college roommate that reads. “My champion at his first track meet! Love that kid!” And there is a boy, just ordinarily looking into the camera, like it’s the simplest thing in the world to be in a track meet, and have your picture taken. Oh how often I want to shove them all…..all those stumbling thoughts into the vault to rot, to waste away. All to the vault to sit like bones in a cell where all the meat of grief can fall of the spongy frame like southern slow roasted ribs. I wish they would sit untouched until I can allow those memories to not cover me with the stickiness of heartache as thick as bbq sauce, (and me forever without a wet wipe). I long for those memories to be bones, something to kick to the side of the road and be forgotten. But vaults in our souls keep us grounded, and opening up the solid vessels is painful, but at least for me, important. The memories allow me to remember how to treat others. To remember to pull the ones I love close, to savor the happy moment in the sun (savor them even more, because I know now how sunburn can ache for days).

Loggy Bear at his cuddliest: Fresh from the tub; pajama clad; smelling like soap and feeling like the essence of love. 2008

Snuggling Loggy bear some more that night, starring into his great wide eyes, as blue as blue bird wings, I asked him, “Do you have a vault of happy memories too?” “I don’t need a vault.” He said at once, his brow furrowed. “I never want to close the door on happiness. The vault isn’t a vault at all. Happiness (he pats his heart) is right here, and squeezes me in his best anaconda hug. So, as my wise boy explained, the vault to all emotion, resides in your heart. We make deposits and withdrawals all day while the heart pumps continuously through the veins, pumps all the memories, happiness and grief alike through the mysterious organs. The heart must pump sadness through the system so it can be diluted, because unspeakable memories must not be allowed to become bloated and stagnant; blood clots to block the flow of life. I know now, the only thing that can push grief through the veins is love. And as a mother, I must know how to work through unspeakable memories and not allow them to keep me from functioning, from understanding that while I might be scarred, maimed and hurt I can still be happy. I've learned I must superimpose my faith and confidence in the future to my children. I must infuse their world with hope. I understand now, that in order to be happy, sometimes I have to seal myself off from grief, ignore it in my veins: I cannot allow fear, (whose cold hand grasp’s griefs in a death grip) to overwhelm faith. I must move forward knowing that hope MUST seep past the rusty hinges, and breathe into the dusty solidness of grief, breath in with peppermint breath, wafting with the promise of snow and Christmas cookies baking. Hope must wrap around all those unspeakable memories to allow the heart to open for speakable memories. To allow the heart to continue to beat. And so, when the unspeakable memories spill unexpectedly, like sugar on the kitchen floor, spill to stick to the soles of my feet, and be tracked through every room, when I am overcome by the devastation of life…I know to seek the things that give me joy. I know to go find that Loggy bear in his Loggy bed, and infuse my vault with the joy of being near him.



Those blessed days of baby teeth and footy pajamas! Gone much, much too soon! Jackson, Wyoming 2008