It’s Hard To Allow Myself to Feel Joy
After a lifetime of trauma, you get comfortable in the dark.
The train eases into the platform. The doors haven’t opened yet, so my pop sees me behind a pane of glass. I lean against the door to feel the sun on me, the full warmth of it, and I press my eyes shut. Because that’s the kind of woman I used to be — squinting at things, always. The doors open and the air feels like an assault — the ice and ferocity of it — nearly takes me out.
My pop is a waver and he’s got both hands going because this is the first time we’ve seen one another in a while. I’m always, I have to take this call; I’m on a plane; I’m in a meeting; I’m on the verge of shoving my head in the oven, etc. When we hug, I’m swathed in the familiar — the roughness of his cheek, the smell of equine, of hay, and it’s only when he pulls back and sees my face up close does he gasp.
You’re a wreck, what happened to you? It’s then, and only then, do I break down. I quake in my little blue coat. I wind my scarf around my face, which is a river. We stand there, quiet, in the middle of the train station at Syosset, while I sob for a full five minutes. My pop doesn’t know what to make of it, the sobbing. He’s known me since I was twelve and he can count on less than two hands the number of times he’s seen me cry. This had even shocked…
