Made In Heaven

You never could understand why, every time I stood in our kitchen, for a good couple months, I cried.

Like grief.

How could I explain it to you? You, who love me? You who know me, but can’t quite comprehend why this kitchen is precious to me?

I love you, too.

That’s why.

You don’t even like to cook, you say, with that funny smile that shows me you’re concerned.

Well, I’ve gotten better about the whole weepy thing. At first, I was really emotional about it all, but it’s been a year, and I don’t cry about the kitchen anymore. That’s why I say it’s like grief.

Our bodies heal, you know? Wounds turn into scabs turn into scars. Sometimes scars fade, so that you have to be looking from just the right angle, in just the right light, to see them.

It doesn’t take sunlight to remember. It doesn’t even take a candle; it can be so, so dark, and the dark itself reminds you.

Reminds at least me of darkness, because I knew it well.

Our souls heal. They’re made that way. It’s ripped or rubbed raw, but time passes, and time heals. Our souls knit themselves together again, because they’re resilient things, they – move over.

It isn’t all that common to move on, though. Maybe that’s why we hate to hear those words when we’re in pain; because we know at the core of our being, at the heart of our being, we haven’t moved on, and can’t move on, and don’t want to move on. We’ve just moved over to make space for the next moment we have to be present to. Life doesn’t pause for pain, and our energy can’t be spent everywhere.

It rations itself. Or divides itself.

So grief and pain are like that. You lose a bit of your energy, your vitality, and it’s stored in a deep place you didn’t know you had, but that your heart is sent to involuntarily.

Can you get it back…?

Anyway.

I know you see my scars.

I’ve shown you.

I showed you the cuts, that my skin has tried to forget, but my soul never has.

And I saw my pain, years old, reflected fresh in your eyes.

I warned you about the darkness.

But you shook your head. You aren’t afraid of darkness. I can tell you’re angry.

And I’m touched, I really am…

But I’ve been angry enough for my whole world.

When I cry, it’s because I love, now. It’s because of you, because you are good, because you treat me like someone’s daughter, even if that someone is unworthy and the complete opposite of you.

I’ve told you about him.

You’ve met my mother, and my siblings. Broken. But us fragments sure had a way of sticking together.

My sister and I worked our summer job dreaming about you. Before my brother reluctantly accepted having two older sisters, I know he pined for brothers.

Now I have you. You’re a good man. So unlike him.

You’re very sweet. Once you picked up on my nonrelationship with him, you didn’t call him my dad. Not even my father, until I assured you it’s alright to. I’m angry, but I’ve grown to desperately love reality. The truth, after all, is impartial, and accepting reality is how you know you’re staying sane.

Would you believe me if I told you there was a time I didn’t smile?

Yes. After all, you’ve seen the scars.

I wouldn’t want everyone to see them, but sometimes you don’t want to be invisible, either. Sometimes you get so pulled into those crevices of pain that you feel like you’re disappearing, and you learn to clamber out again, but sometimes—

Sometimes you’re seen. Sometimes, someone else’s hand is even there to help pull you up.

Right. The kitchen.

I told you about that time he took my food.

This was after everything burned and he left the house. He came back every day, because back then, your brother-in-law was still speaking with him. He left every day, and every day, he made sure to coat the hallways with his reeking sweat; made sure to tell us he loved us and missed us terribly. Made sure to take food Mother had cooked that day, made sure to forget about folding his laundry until his four hours’ visiting time was over. But we survived. Because every time he left, I could breathe again. We could laugh again.

My food was always in the rectangular glass bowl; I cooked my celiac-safe meal for lunch and had the leftovers with my dinner. I hate being hungry.

I came home from walking the dog, hungry. Minutes earlier I’d opened the garage and breathed a prayer of praise, that the car – the car I’d learned to drive in – was gone.

It was like my eyes went out of focus.

I lost my mind.

Later, I realized. It had been a panic attack. I stared into my bowl and my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the couple cooked vegetables left in there.

He’d taken it all.

He apologized, and said he can only say it wasn’t intentional.

You’re right about the kitchen thing. I don’t even really like to cook.

I like to cook for you, and most of all with you. But you won’t find me drooling over Pinterest recipes, certainly won’t find me reading a cookbook. I take after my mother. We cook good, and simple, food; food that’s so simple it leaves plenty of room for social seasoning. We are practical and use only as many pans as are proportional to our energy capacity that day.

But I remember.

I remember how it feels when your stomach twists and your food sours, when you hear your mom shrieking with pain upstairs, from inside the bedroom, where she’s hunched on the bed directly above the table I’m sitting at. I remember suddenly being the very opposite of hungry. Or even being still hungry, but having no appetite for food whatsoever.

I was very hungry, all those years. Hungry for a home that wasn’t twinged by such history and hurt.

I was very angry.

And very afraid.

No wonder I drifted into darkness back when I had no anchor, and into panic. I was so scared. Little girls aren’t supposed to be scared of their fathers. They’re supposed to feel like princesses, supposed to want their kings to walk them down the aisle on the day when they most look like a princess.

Well, he didn’t.

Because I grew up.

And fear turned to anger, but it was still the little girl inside who was feeling, who was upset, who was crying – without tears, back then. If I was going to cry about his leaving, it would be about the car he left in.

The car that still had “Student Driver” sticking on it.

I did some moving on, after he left. Breathing keeps you alive. You can function, you can move, you can grow. When she could breathe, the little girl let go of some things. The funny thing about those things that time moves aside is that they’re never gone, no matter how deep you think they’re buried. And they’re always on an upward trajectory, because we’re made to clamber.

It’s not really about the kitchen.

Just like home is not really about the house.

Still, they’re intertwined.

When you changed my name, officially picked me up from the one family and placed me in yours, you picked me up literally and placed me on the other side of the threshold, saying you and me, we’d build a home.

Home.

A house can hold hatred and love all in one hand. Home is the loving part. A house can be small. I love our small house. I love our big love, our overflowing home.

So here I am, in the kitchen, and I’m crying again.

Oh! You startled me.

Why are you up?

Ah—because of me. You’re usually a heavy sleeper. I’m not surprised you woke up, because it wouldn’t surprise me if an angel poked you awake. I’m more surprised you made it down the stairs so stealthily. Yes, that’s putting it graciously. I’m surprised I didn’t have to hear a ruckus and hurry to find you hanging on to the handrailing for dear life.

An angel must have whispered in my ear, too, because I have coffee made – just for you.

Is something wrong? You ask me. Your arms are warm.

Good morning, love. Nothing’s wrong.

I smile at you. Smiles are easy now, like how shadows come naturally when the sun is shining. I laugh so hard when I’m with you, it’s like my chest explodes with a kaleidoscope heart full of butterflies.

White butterflies. Beautiful, white, beloved butterflies.

I laughed hard with Mother. But I can tell even she marvels now, because I’ve become so happy, so carefree; like we never could have imagined, all those years ago.

I wish I could have told myself this, and her.

That it happens.

My dreams do come true, in you.

Stop, you always say ruefully. I never thought this would happen, but you’re the practical one; I’m the dreamer. You remind me that our life is flawed, that no dream comes strictly true; that life isn’t a fairytale, and you’re no knight.

Maybe not, but our dream was never flawless. Our dream includes the microwave that doesn’t beep, includes the shower drain that I have to pour Drano down every other week. Our dream includes needing separate blankets in our bed because I get cold, need to be a burrito; and you need something to kick when you’re asleep, and I’d prefer it’s not my shin.

You laughed, even though I made you promise not to, when I told you my dreams.

The wax-sealed wedding invitations – that we (my sister and I, of course) said we’d reuse come Christmastime for our new family’s Christmas cards. The Lord of the Rings marathons. I know you’re not as obsessed as I am, but you willingly sit through the extended editions, and you indulge my quotes. Sometimes you even inform me it comes in pints, when you tease me about drinking water out of a beer glass.

What? It has a handle and it’s bigger. That’s why I stay more hydrated than you.

Speaking of. Do you want some coffee?

Here you go. No, I won’t drink a cup today.

Your expression is funny. You can’t pull off a perplexed look this time of the morning, it just looks like you don’t quite know why you’re awake yet.

I won’t be drinking coffee for a while.

You just stare blankly at me, like I’ve lost my mind, but who cares because it’s way too early to care about anything.

I love my mother. She’s the strongest person I ever knew. As for my father; he numbed my heart beyond that ability a long, long time ago.

You’re not like that.

You’re not a crusher, you’re a carer. Your heart and your conscience aren’t dead, they’re vividly bright and alive. You’re not a taker, you’re a giver.

You’re going to be a wonderful father.

You blink, trying to rid yourself of that sleepiness, because suddenly the air is charged.

Maybe I should simplify, have some pity on you.

You’re going to be a father.