Staying Connected

Every year on the fifteenth of the sixth month, which is thought to be the center of the year when anything can happen, my family celebrates with a strange tradition. No one but my mother entirely understands why we do it, but we go along because if we don’t, supposedly some dark spirit will eat our soul. We all have our own crazy definitions for the tradition, my brother Pup thinks that my mother wants to entwine our histories and destinies so that we will never part. I think she does it because of the dark monster that swells in her chest at night. The hatred we all feel towards our father. My grandmother has the most disturbing suggestion of all, she thinks that my mother is trying to wind back time to change her fate and bring back the world she once knew, but how is she going to do that. Anyway, it’s that time of year again and we all prepare ourselves for the pain and suffering that tonight is sure to bring. Since I was four my mother has done this tradition every year, and when my grandma came to live with us - she took part in it too. In my house, there is a special room in the basement, with a mattress big enough to fit all of us on it, where we perform that ritual.

My stomach drops as I go down the stairs, one at a time, trying to draw out my time before I have to stand in a circle between my brother and grandma. I hear the familiar snip of my mother’s golden scissors as she cuts the desired length of platinum thread. The thread that will soon weave us together. I sink my knees to the mattress and hold my hands out to my mother, putting my smooth tanned hands next to the wrinkled ones of my grandmother. We all hold our breath as my mother threads her silver needle and starts to stitch her fingers. One at a time, very slowly, five stitches on one hand leading to another five on the other. Then it loops onto my brother’s fingers. My mother’s worn hands stitch carefully as she draws pinpricks of blood with every stitch. My brother winces, but he knows what will happen if he cries out.

The first year we did it he was two, and he didn’t understand. And when he howled in pain my mother took the needle and dug it deep into the back of his hand and raked it down his arm with force. The scar is still there, and he runs his fingers over it every time before the ritual. Getting older doesn’t help, you just begin to see how close to madness your mother is, and you notice the small scabs that appear on your fingertips. My mother never explained why we do it, it just started one day and never stopped.

My mother shifts her seat carefully, making sure not to disrupt her careful stitches. Slowly and deliberately she places the first stitches in my fingers. I flinch but quickly calm my face. There is no reason to escalate this more than it has been. The first stitches never hurt too bad, but once she gets into the zone, the pain is almost unbearable. My brother glances at me sympathetically, he tries for a small smile to reassure me, but his eyes are filled with tears. My own eyes well up, but I push it down. After fifteen years of this, I have learned to level my emotions.

I remember one year when the ritual was going to happen, the day before I had decided I’d had enough. I was a reckless teenager and I was horrified of my mother. I packed a bag and left. I had never been let outside our property before and the feeling had been exhilarating, but in no time at all my mother had found me. The punishment had been beyond painful and since then I knew not to trust my feelings, no matter how strong they are.

My mother finishes with my hands and moves onto my grandmother’s hands. My poor grandmother is too old for this and she cries almost every year, in soft hiccupping sobs. My mother punishes her every year. Once when I was younger grandmother had told me that what she wanted more than anything was to die. I didn’t understand then- why someone would want to cease living, but I do now. Somehow my grandmother hasn’t gotten her wish, even though now she’s one hundred and two. A wrinkled old woman with fraying gray strands of hair, and scared hands. My grandmother shrieks and I open my eyes. The back of her hand is dripping blood and my mother is just backing up, her face plastered with a sickening look of disdain. With careful fingers, she ties the platinum thread around her index finger, creating a circle of thread between us. On cue, we all close our eyes, and my mother begins the chant.

“Si fatum ex parte et nos sumus ex parte: tunc fatum. Non solum nos erimus connectuntur. Semper hic iam in sempiternum. Commorati sunt connexae.”

Which in Latin means: If we are were to part, and then fate. Not only us but we are also aligned. Always been here forever. Staying connected.

Her chant aligns with my Pup’s theory. Though I still think it has something to do with the fact that our father left. We sit in silence and hold our hands out, waiting for my mother to snip the twine. But she never does. While our eyes are closed the bombs rain down on us. Destroying everything, but not us. The thread holds us together, while the explosives raise an inferno around us. I can’t feel anything, only the thread connecting us. Maybe this was my mother’s plan the whole time, maybe this is why she tied us together every year. Maybe she does it because she knows it’s important to stay connected. My brother was right, and so was I. I hope now my poor grandmother can rest peacefully, knowing we are safe and staying connected.