I found a torn up picture in the bottom of a box today.

I crawled into our attic, having first carefully removed all of my husband’s clothes from the small closet at the back of which stands the small door through which one must pass to get into the bowels of our roofline.  I wanted to find pictures of my childhood.  Except for one or two, I failed in that mission but found other treasures, including a tintype of the great-grandmother after whom I am named. And one small photograph of my cousin Paul, playing pool at our grandfather’s house, smiling at the camera just before taking his shot.

In between bouts of dragging things out of the closet and sorting through pictures, I exchanged a series of e-mails with someone who is angry with me.

The whys and wherefores of the quarrel aside, I got lost at the crossroad of vindication and understanding.  I chose the former; took two steps down the path; and turned to find a wall rising behind me.  I threw my arms on the mounting bricks and mortar, and clung for my life; seeing the path to understanding receding behind the barrier.  I’m clinging still; my eyes visible above the obstruction; hoping their light shines over the wall.

And so I sat back down, at the table, with my piles of pictures and a cup of coffee.  I left the quarrel to simmer for the moment, seeing it as a  problem born of my regressive choice that can only be resolved by the healing salve of the other’s forgiveness.  I cannot fix it at the moment; I’ve offered my request and cannot do more.  Mercy is the other’s to give or to withhold.

Instead I sort through the packets of photographs, saving this one and that one, making a small pile: My brother’s face; a few slides of myself as a young woman with my oldest niece; the party we had at O’Connell’s pub, years ago.  That picture of my cousin Paul.  A couple of me, looking impossibly naive, with long hair, clear skin, and eyes not yet wounded by life’s rocky journey.

A little pile of scraps from the torn picture sits before me on the table now.  I see my hand in one piece, wearing a moon watch that I was given in 1987.  I’m on the telephone.  I haven’t found my face yet, but I found part of my father’s head so I know I am sitting beside him.  I see my hand again; I’ve got two pictures, I realize; torn together and discarded in the box.  Just as suddenly, I know that I don’t have all the pieces.  I never will.  I’ll never know what caused me  to tear this picture into shreds but yet, be unable to discard it.  The rest of the pieces have been lost.  I stare at the little pile, as my coffee grows cold beside me.  I am left wondering if the act of destruction cleansed my heart, or if the rage and bitterness with which I destroyed my own image lingers still.

From Brookside, 15 March 2014