Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

These little black rectangles hold worlds I once lived in. I so badly wish I could jump inside one of them and take up residence, return to a time when I was whole.

I’m taken back to when I was young, peering up at our mother, thinking she had the answers to all the questions in the world. We all look at our parents that way, until we don’t.

Dad always made chores and small tasks into games. I think he was trying to teach us that no matter how bad life was, it could still be fun.

“Digging up the past is depressing.”

Whatever I don’t capture through video and photos, I write about in journals, key points of each day that I cherish and even those I don’t—it’s important to remember both the good and the bad because together they keep us grateful and grounded.

I’ve always loved flowers. There’s something special about their existence. They’re how we greet the ones we love and say goodbye to the ones we’ve lost.

I want to tell her to have a backup plan, to be more realistic. But I know there’s a fine line between keeping your children grounded and killing their dreams, so I smile a little wider instead.

She doesn’t smile but her eyes do, and I’ll take that.

“You don’t need to be first, honey,” I say, staring directly at her. I want my daughter to really hear me, to remember these words one day when she’s stopped believing in herself. That day will come. It comes for all of us. And I want her to have the tools to get past that day and any other day like it. Her brow furrows. “First?” “The first to stand in your way. Other people are going to tell you no. They’re going to tell you that you can’t do something, you’re not good enough, you’re not worthy. You don’t need to do that. Don’t add to the noise. Because that’s all it is . . . noise. You be a voice, a voice for yourself.”

At fifteen, she sees me mostly as a buzzkill. I’m her drill instructor, her boss, an impediment to freedom, and a barrier to the life she wants to live. Everything cool, I am the opposite. This dynamic is a rite of passage for parents of teenagers. One day, she’ll grow out of it. When that day comes, I might even miss her sass.

I wish she’d learn to slow down. Because one day, she’ll be my age, wishing for it back.

All of a sudden, my youngest child’s arms are wrapped around my waist. I lean down, breathing him in. It’s these moments I’ll cherish forever.

I know my children’s futures are bright, but I want to live in the now—even if it is dimly lit, and we’re barely scraping by. Because I know now is guaranteed, but tomorrow may never come.

Glimpsing at the past feels unnatural as though we’re not supposed to be able to. It’s like looking in a mirror, but I’m not the other person staring back. That version of myself no longer exists.

Dad would never hurt anyone. But he did. He hurt all of us when he picked up and left.

“Guilt can eat you slowly or swallow you whole.”

Shutting off the brain is sometimes the only way to get past fear.

That’s how he and I are—a misshapen thing that was once made with love and molded to perfection. Even the most perfect things crumble under pressure.

“I’m okay.” I’m not, but that’s just what you say.