Was It Ever?

Four letters dominated the tumultuous undercurrent of their relationship. They could not be read out, only felt.

Was it aide? Acts of service, once from the elder to youth, now reversed, decades between. Few words could be spoken to fill the space they were already suffocating within. Attempts die in their mouths, dry and painful, clawing against the tongue as they're dragged down to the pit in their stomachs.

Was it ajar? A possibility for more. An understanding. Eye contact, always fleeting and panicked, betrayed an uncomfortably earnest desire for more. Exposed at recitals, graduations, anniversaries, and funerals. As mother ascended to grandmother. As child became mother to a ghost.

Was it bait? A challenge. A few cutting words carved with a double-edged sword. Ruminations on could'ves, should'ves, and would'ves. One lingered on photos of decades past, an only child becoming a sister, then lonely again. The other held a memory more recent, a little boy in a field, smiling as though the whole world was his friend. They pointedly glanced at the other, attempting to insinuate guilt, leaving both with shame.

Dote? Confusing moments of tenderness. Daughter, when young and old, supplied with tea and warm blankets after the winter's first few sniffles. Dinner made side by side, a worn, dog-earred cookbook open and ignored on the counter, all their pencilled-in modifications known by heart. Music they both enjoy drifts through the air, regardless of whose turn it was to pick. Wordless evenings ended with goodnights, coming at the ends of days that began with good mornings and questions about the other's sleep. Little exchanges that meant little in the grand scheme, and yet brought so much lingering confusion.

Echo? A mirror shows her grandmother's face. People on the phone call her the wrong name at first. In school, without much practice, words written by her own hand were accepted as passes for field trips and days off of school. During her 20s, she shaved her head, after having given little thought as to what dying her hair blonde would do to her appearance.

Fast? It went by so fast. Childhood. Adolescence. Young adulthood. It all happened just yesterday, and yet today seemed to linger on forever.

Gift? So many gone, but they still remain. Both knew the pain of losing a child, and one of losing a parent. A long phone call one evening brought news of death - an old friend of the mother's. Two daughters spoke over the phone for three hours, more than twice the amount they've ever spoken in the some twenty years they'd known each other. When the call ended, throat sore from talking, she made two cups of tea.

Home? When she first agreed to move back, she had felt so hollow. All the life she'd left with had withered away and died, leaving a shell vulnerable to even the slightest blow. Her possessions fit neatly in two suitcases and three boxes in the back of her car. A very large coffee kept her company up front, the few sips she took being her breakfast. The drive, which she had seldom done over the years, took four hours. A memory of a child discussing all the sights out the window with a stuffed monkey kept her numb. When she finally arrived, a stiff hug was her reward for not wrapping the car around a tree on the way over. She alone lugged her things up to her room, and when all was done, something was different in her. The smell of egg salad sandwiches drifted up the stairs, and she heard her mother move the stool to get the good china down. Her bedroom was a piece of her that she had lost - joy, youth, hope, safety. She couldn't ever have it back as it was, but perhaps she could get close, couldn't she? She didn't know. She was tired of everything. Downstairs, they talked about nothing. Her sleep was dreamless.

Life? No two people more appreciated and abhorred it.

Push or Pull? Sometimes one yells, sometimes the other, sometimes both. Neither ever listen in the moment, only hours later, alone in their beds, an inescapable highlight reel running on a loop. They know what words will hurt the most, what will make them cry and what will make them fight back. A sick need to provoke the other into being the worst, to prove to an imaginary audience their victimhood. Sometimes one makes some sort of peace offering, sometimes the other, sometimes both. Neither is willing to be vulnerable enough to truly mean it.

Ruth? Death kills the body, not the memory. Her sweet girl (as oppose to the other one) still danced about the halls. Still sang loud songs to describe mundane actions, still crawled about the garden searching for weeds, still had those big, eager eyes that constantly pleaded for an extra treat before dinner. Ruth would have had a gorgeous life - lots of friends, a big family, successful career. She would've had everything neither of them did. But she didn't like to imagine Ruth as an adult. She just wanted to see her sweet girl.

Taut? Suffocatingly tight. Their hearts squeezed painfully when they thought about the other too long.

Tied? Undoubtedly. One can never let the other go. If one is happy, so is the other. Depressed, angry, envious, content, empty. They are lonely, and but never feel alone.

Was it yern? Obsolete. An old-fashioned way of spelling yearn. What was once desire and eagerness, now nothing but a memory. There was no way back to it, too long gone, too out of use. The feeling still remains, lingering awkwardly, out of place. Unwanted, yet persistent.

Their relationship teeters back and forth in big swings, knocking both to their feet with each blow, regardless of direction. And yet, just as sure as they are to be the other's downfall, they are also the one who picks them up again and again. And deep in their hearts, they know to always expect the same in return.