Returning

Dear 9 Year Old Tina, You’re almost 46, can you believe it? It feels like everything and nothing has changed. Did you ever think we’d be moving back home, but now our family is, like, old? I always knew we might have to return home, after all, you were the responsible one. As time went on you were brave enough to leave, to protect yourself, to grow, live in another country, travel– while everything at home stayed just about the same– except we’re not in Brooklyn anymore. Today I am sitting in a much more nicely decorated room than you did in 1989, but the feelings remain– the emotions. I’m left wondering, again, what life will be like– but I’m in an adult body, with an adult mind and experiences. I fought for you, I hope you know that. I tried to protect you, to do my best– to change– and now we’re back here. I’m sorry. I didn’t choose this for us. I didn’t choose to grow up to be a caretaker– this story chose us. Or God chose it. Can I– can we–  blame God? Every day that I’ve returned home I’ve returned to you, to 9 year old Tina, but I’m not eating in my bedroom and growing in size out of fear and loneliness. I won’t make you go through that all over again. Hiding behind food is not an option. I worked too hard for you to lose the physical weight and the psychological trauma that got you there. But today I sit here as an angry version of you. I didn’t want you to grow up to be angry. The other evening I made a steak for dinner– it was preparedwith such rage that I cringed when I tasted it because it was so delicious. Can anger be tasty– even delicious? That same night, on the way home from taking out the trash, I sat in the driveway, in the mint blue Honda CRV with dad’s handicap and Veterans plates, and NEW DRIVER bumper magnets, and cried. Being a new driver at almost 46 and taking mom grocery shopping is surreal. Being here is surreal, even if I said I would do it. “These Dreams” by Heart, played on the radio. The sunroof was open, there was a breeze. Tears washed over my face. You were with me.

Darkness on the edge, shadows where I stand

I search for the time on a watch with no hands

I want to see you clearly, come closer than this

But all I remember are the dreams in the mist
I cried for you. I don’t know where you will end up and I’m sorry. I know you never wanted kids because you didn’t get to be a kid and now you’re a parent in a home you longed to leave. No one forced this return, I volunteered. I feel like I failed you, us, but I couldn’t not help them. They’re our family. They didn’t ask for this either– for their stories. For their own returns to childhood and pain.