Red Napkins.

I'm doing it again, avoiding myself. I haven't wanted to write because there's too much to be said and I'm not entirely sure how to go about doing it. My Moleskine has lost its allure, it's become too much of a liability it seems. So this is all I have, but even sitting down has seemed difficult. Strenuous. Undesirable. 


I want to think that I'm at the age now that I know all families are fucked up, at least to some extent. And mine is no different. But even knowing that, even being somewhat aware of what's been happening in Virginia with my sister and parents, I was still thrown when I showed up from the airport. I guess it couldn't have waited, these things never wait for "the right time," as if that existed. But I thought it wouldn't have come until after my bags had been packed away in some forgotten corner, until after we'd carefully placed our red napkins on the white table cloth before clutching our bellies to signify Christmas dinner had been completed. 


Rather we sat in silence, our heads bowed over mother's finest China pretending the place setting for my sister's boyfriend - the one with the kid, the one who'd done time, the one who sneaks over in the middle of the night thinking we won't notice - hadn't been removed. After all this was family time. A rare occasion. Not one privy to the likes of him. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable in my skin. I want to defend my parents to decision, but it's Christmas.


Isn't this a time of giving? One moment in which all feuds are called off so that in the shallow hours of truce, inhibition is at last possible? I choose instead to say nothing and eat slowly, trying to at least save the moment for myself by savoring my father's turkey and stuffing which I haven't had for over 2 years. From across the table my sister stifles her sobs into that red napkin. One my mother never intended us to use. 


It's all for decoration. It always has been. 


Dammit, why can I turn my fucking brain off? Give it a rest. I hate how quickly it jumps to those images and chooses to scream "HERE IT IS! LOOK, REMEMBER THIS!" as if it enjoys how much pain I'm in from one moment to the next. I let my eyes roll shut and take a long breathe inward. My brother makes a comment, something along the lines of describing how horrible this whole ordeal has turned out to be. Or how unhappy he is. Or how much he hates it here. And suddenly I realize it was never about Christmas. 


It was some desperate attempt for normalcy. Something that seems to have alluded us since my father left for Iraq in 2008. 


I put my fork down, and reach for my mother's hand, shaking it gently. From across the other, I take my sister's. The toxicity ends now.


I refuse. We are not untouchable and we can never think we are.


We can not condemn. We can not pretend. We are not unforgivable. 


The pain spreads in waves. It burns just below the surface of the skin like a shot of medicine entering the blood stream. Hot and quick. Ceaseless until at last disappearing among the magic that makes us run. Quiet for now, but ever present. In times like this, it folds in on itself, creating pockets that erupt without warning. Suddenly I want to vanish more than anything. I want to buy a plane ticket and send myself away from this so I will never again have to feel it like I do now. 


I exhale. It seems I've forgotten how to breathe. 


There will be no plane ticket. Not for some time. So I return to my lunch in front of me, now cold. Picking up my knife and fork, I trim the fat from my ham and dip a piece in mashed potatoes. My red napkin laid neatly across my lap, ready to catch whatever it is I may or may not drop.