The Hope Rock
By Anne Coakley
For the first time, maybe ever, I felt things were going to be alright. My generation’s children, now rounding the corner into their 30s, were going to be okay in spite of us (their parents) and the sorry state of the world we’re handing them. They will survive and better still -- they will flourish. Life is as it should be, me turning the middle-age corner and the next in line stepping up to the plate for their turn at bat.
I had gone with my niece to see Dave Matthews Band. I’d been a DMB fan for a long time. In fact, he is the person I’m allowed to have sex with without it counting as adultery, just stupidity, if the opportunity presented itself and I did not take advantage of it. My husband’s make-believe partners are either Jennifer Aniston or Julia Roberts because pennies from heaven do not fall from the sky so often that you should ignore them. My 30 year old daughter, Sarah, told me I wasted my pick but her like-aged cousin, my niece, agrees with me. For me, it is not his sexy balding bad boy self, but those sweet lyrics. He among men understands love and life mixed in a soup of tenderness and toughness that leaves me yearning to hear more. And hey, that adorable smiling face does not hurt.
Lauren asked me to accompany her knowing how much I love DMB. I jumped at the chance, not just for the music, but for the opportunity to connect and spend time with her. I’ve loved her since the first moment I laid eyes on her beautiful tiny self. I can still remember her loose grip encircling my finger. When she was a baby, she was unyielding in wanting her mother, except for me. We spoke of tender times, static moments captured in our hearts.
“You used to stop in your tracks, turn your head and head toward the music and dance like a firefly on fire when you heard the Fabulous Thunderbirds – Hey Baby, Let Me In. You remember that?’”
“No, I remember hearing about it but not really doing it.”
“Remember that time I took you and John to that beach in Gloucester? We didn’t have any bathing suits for you with us so you just went swimming in your underwear and then were half naked wrapped up in a blanket in the backseat of the car, eating pizza?”
“Oh boy, I remember that. It was so fun.”
“Do you remember one time I brought you and Sarah on a horse-drawn carriage around Faneuil Hall? We all felt like Cinderella. We had hot chocolate and a blanket wrapping us up, snug as could be . The horse had little bells and jangled his way through the streets. It was December, Christmas time and it felt magical.”
“I don’t remember that day, but do remember that time you bought me A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I still have it. I read it and re-read it. The cover is dog-eared and all but off and I remember how excited I was to get it. I will always treasure it.”
We reminisced. There’s a magic to sharing memories, even if they are memories you’ve heard and re-heard but don’t actually remember. Aunts remember things that you could never know. They store a part of your history, the funny and cute things you did when your personality is just starting to reveal itself. These tiny insignificant flashes in time, embedded in someone else’s memory, eventually become your story even though you’ll never literally remember them. These ‘un-memories’ are significantly yours -- your first steps, first words, the first taste of a pickle or ice cream sundae – shadows to you, but stone to others.
Grown up now with two children of her own -- a girl, six and a boy, five, Lauren is a busy working mom. Her daughter has lion curly brown hair, a wide mouthed smile and a golden pure heart. Lauren tells me she just graduated from kindergarten and has already gotten the reputation of being a true-blue friend. I hear how she goes out of her way to be kind, to lift up spirits. All the girls were making fun of another girl because of her haircut. Lauren’s daughter turned the ship around by suggesting that the flaws were not flaws at all, but really features highlighting her uniqueness. It was so meaningful to the girl that her mother told Lauren about it, how much it meant to her daughter and what a kind-hearted soul she was raising.
Her son has autism. Fortunately, he was diagnosed early and has been able to have behavioral therapy, which seems to have made a great difference.
She is not the kind to complain or reveal things that make her feel vulnerable. I know this is difficult, but I have no first hand experiences with autism so I just listen. She tells me how hard it is, along with how much she loves and cherishes him. There are traces of anger and frustration sewn in, too. She tells me how angry she feels when people are clueless to her son’s condition. It is not an easy road, I know, but I tell her that I believe we never really know the plan God has for our lives, but the two of them were put together for Good. Thinking to myself, I wonder the purpose of this joining of hearts, her to her sons and how lucky he is to have her as his mother. I know her love has the power to move mountains, endure anything, everything. God merged them, maybe for them, maybe for others and maybe both. Purposes are seldom revealed quickly. They can bend and morph over time, serving more than a single point. It’s like that book you read as a teenager that held so much meaning for you but if you read it now, it would be a bore. Or it could be that other book, the one that you read as a teenager and got so much out of it, but later picked it up and it opened your mind to so many new insights, more than your younger self could have ever possibly been able to absorb. Our purposes are like both books.
She picks up a perfect little round rock I keep in my car. My car is cluttery, not down-right dirty, but certainly not clean. I have pieces of paper here and there, gadgets with plugs, scrips and scraps of life all around me.
“What’s this, Annie?”
“Pick it up. Hold it in your hand.”
She holds the rock.
“Hold it like this.” I show her how to hold it the right way, with your hand wrapped around it like a fist and your fingers pointing down, not up.
“What does it feel like?”
“I don’t know.”
“A child’s hand.”
“Oh yeah. It’s the perfect weight.”
“I pick it up when I need courage, resilience. It reminds me of the future and how I can put up with whatever it is until the real hand replaces the rock.”
I tell her my rock story.
I found this rock on a beautiful day about two weeks after my youngest brother’s wife died. My husband, myself and our faithful companion, a blonde cockapoo named Teddy were trying to shake the sadness off by venturing to Stage Fort Park in Gloucester, Massachusetts. It was one of those pitch perfect late June days we sometimes get in New England. We parked on Stacy Boulevard, which runs parallel with the Atlantic as well as crossing the Annisquam river. There is a bridge letting the boat traffic from the river into the ocean during the height of summer, causing many mini traffic jams. The boulevard is dressed in its finest, with American flags blowing magnificently the full length of the road. The sea kisses the shore, the wind kisses the flags and the sun kisses everything. The day is a blessing.
We follow the well-worn path through the tree line into the park. We pass the family reunions, the children on swings and slides and pretend pirate ships. You can hear in the distance the murmuring squeals of childish delight with high pitched ‘Look at ME!’, sing-songs. I wonder what the real birds think of their youthful competition.
Past the picnic tables you can smell the charcoal, its smoke and its meat as it sizzles. The cooks have their red cups hiding liquor in practical respectability while the sound of a family singing Spanish lyrics accompanied by acoustic guitar glides through the breeze.
The face of humanity shines brightly this day.
It is just what my broken heart needs. We all loved my sister-in-law and her death was not an accident. She was only 47 and had a kind, good soul but the circumstances of her death are more than unfortunate. Even now, the word….I can’t utter or write it. Her depression cut so deep, her pain seemed unendurable. But there is this hole, this pain we’re all left with that turns us around, knocks us down. We are all left empty and angry and sad. Just sad, really, just sad.
Her story, I have to tell in a fable.
Once Upon a Time,
In a Time Not So Long Ago
Lived a Family that Seemed So Ordinary
That No One Would Have Noticed Them.
They Were A King and Queen And Their Two Noble Princes.
In A Time When Music Reigned and Tender Hearts Needing Watering,
A Future King Fell Deeply, Soulfully and Woefully in Mad-Love Upon First Sight.
She Stole His Heart By Being Still
And Believing In Him With All Her Might.
He Spoke of His Dreams.
He Moved With Quiet Certainty.
He was Young and Strong and Brave
And Very Gentle
And Very Kind.
And the Future Queen Held Her Breath When He Approached,
Hoping That He Was the Promised One Meant to Rescue Her.
You See,
The Girl Needing Rescuing Very Desperately.
Her Life Up Until That Point Had Been Nothing But Misery And Torture.
There Were Wicked Parents and Siblings Under Demonic Spells
Who Seemed Incapable of Defending Her.
She Had Been Brought Into A World of Dark Places
By Bullying Piranhas Intent on Humiliating and Degrading Her.
When Entrusted Heroes Become Piranhas,
The Suffering is Incalculable
And Even Hiding
Does No Good.
In Those Dark Days,
She Would Pretend Not To Be There,
Hiding Inside Herself Like A Tiny, Little Dust Ball.
She Would Become So Small, Almost Invisible.
But Not Quite.
The Mean Voices In Her Head Would Sometimes Come Out.
They Started Softly
But Always Grew Louder.
They Told Her Lies.
They Said, “You Are Nothing.
No One Will Ever Care About You
Because You Are Not Beautiful.
You Deserve To Be Tortured.”
She Would Hover Inside and Think
“No. You Go Away.
I Will Prove You Wrong.
I Will Have A Good Life.”
And Then She Became a Gypsy and Met A Good Woman
Who Gave Her A Drink of Human Kindness
And It Tasted Very Good.
The Woman Had a Tough Exterior
But Inside She Was A Marshmallow.
And the Girl Became More and More Like a Butterfly
And Less and Less Like A Dust Ball.
She Married Her King
And The Days of Celebration Began.
The Voices Subsided
And She Would Always Tell Them To Buzz Off
When They Started Their Shit.
They Had Parties With Friends
And Made Rituals of Love
That Warmed Their House.
Soon the Boys, Identical Twins, Came Along.
The Joy Spread And It Was Good.
The King and Queen Were Popular in Their Own Small Way.
But then One Day,
The Queen Noticed Some Back Pain.
And then the Medical Vipers Came.
They Suggested Radical Surgery to Fix the Problem.
A Doctor Wright Soon Became Doctor Wrong
And the Pain Required Much Medicine.
The Surgery Did Not Work
Leading to Ever More Surgeries and More Potions.
The Medicine Had Bad Powers
And Changed the Girl into an Unrecognizable Mess.
And Even Though the King Promised Forever
It Was A Very Hard Promise.
The Voices Came Back With A Vengeance.
“You Thought You Were Something.
You Told Us to Buzz Off.
Well Now, Deary, We Know Who You Really Are.
We Know How Totally Worthless and Totally Useless You Are.”
And They Would Not Let Up.
The More Powerful They Became,
The More Potions the Girl Consumed,
The Harder It Got for the King.
The Girl Did Try to Change.
She Read the People this Poem
Because She Wanted To Believe It So Much.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all – [1]
She Kept Hoping.
And The King Fought For Her and With Her.
He Did Everything He Could Because He Was Brave.
But the Hope Became A Sucker Puncher.
The Feather Felt Like A Sledgehammer,
Annihilating their Love to Bits.
Like Zillions of Particles Flying and Smashing,
Orbiting their Kingdom
Like So Much Dead Weight,
Like Atoms Flung Into A Never Ending Black Hole.
Until the Habit and the Voices and the Brokenness Consumed Her.
Even The Circling Piranhas Finally Abandoned Her
But Not Until They Twisted Her
Into Knots of Sadness,
Outbursts of Anger …
And Quite Shamelessly --
Guilt.
So the King Gave Up, Unable to Bear More.
And then …
She Left.
But She Meant To Say
That She Loved Everyone
And Was Very Sorry
But the Pain Was Overwhelming
And She Might Be Totally Wrong
But This Was All She Could Think
To Stop the Pain.
And the Heartbroken People
That Really Did Love Her
Were So Sad.
They Felt Very Badly That They Did Not Do Enough
To Tell Her and Show Her
How Much She Meant To Them.
But In Truth Only She Could Save Herself.
No One Could Have Done Anything
To Change What Happened
Because the Voices She Listened To
Were the Wrong Ones.
And You Can Never Fix Some Broken Things,
Not Even With Love Itself.
The King Decided To Be Happy Again
Which Made the People Feel Better,
But Never Really the Same.
Because That Kind of Sadness
Sticks to the Inside Walls of Your Stomach,
Clings to Your Skin
And Never Goes Away Completely.
He Said Goodbye to His Memory of Her.
The People Dropped Petals and Poems and Rocks,
Cans of Pepsi and Packs of Newports,
And Irish Blessings.
They Whispered Their Only Whisper.
Love You and Miss You.
We Know You Are at Peace
But We Are Still Kind of Mad About It.
When I Next See You Again
I Am Going To Give You Hell.
So there is that.
Anyway, back to the rock.
Shaking the sad dust off among the blessings of blue sky, light breezes and summer soundtrack, I was thinking of her, her sorry fable, my hurting family and life itself. Within me, I reminisced deep thoughts of this beautiful woman who I’d known as a young girl, madly in love with my brother. The warmth of the sunshine heated my old bones and creaky joints acting like an invisible salve. I imagine my relatives enjoying themselves, passing the wine or beer around the table as they break bread. A hard work week completed, resting easily as they bask in the seaside glory with men teasing, quick with a joke or story, comfortable in their skins and the women keeping order, in charge of the food and the children.
We sat in the shade, near the enormous rock that ancient children must have also climbed. The granite comes up out of nowhere. Giant seams held countless footsteps over never ending days. Kites fly, swings pitch back and forth and the laughter and goodness soak me to my core. This is an enchanting place where people come to relax, take a moment to enjoy life and become renewed.
At the end of the park there’s a long stretch of open field sloping down where the ocean meets the sky and the shore is covered with rocks. And it is here I look for my souvenir of this day, my rock. I searched and searched picking and discarding. When I picked this one up, I thought immediately...this is my grandchild’s hand, this is what this will feel like. I wished my sister-in-law could have had a rock to hold onto. Maybe it would have been a little reminder of the future to help her look forward. Whenever she felt down she could imagine her little grand-something. How, if only she’d have been able to hold onto some physical reminder of the future in her hand maybe she wouldn’t have done it. It was right here, the next phase was right there in the rock, just waiting to be held.
When the world beats its path of trouble towards my door, I pick the rock up and think - I’m here, waiting for you. Come on, now, little one. I’ll be patient waiting for you and I can wade through today’s troubles because I know you are out there. The rock is round-ish, not oval and still not perfectly round. It feels very smooth from the years of the sea churning, working its magic. It is speckled light brown and white with a small chip in it. Its imperfection makes it no less perfect.
And now, I’m going to be a grandmother for real and all I do is worry. I’m trying to have more faith, but until the event is here I will worry. I worry about the health of the baby and the health and wellbeing of my own daughter.
In fact, I tell Lauren another story, which is how I found out Sarah was pregnant.
I tell Lauren….
“Sarah and I went to a movie and coming home she told me about a friend who had a baby boy. She is kind of and at the same time not really a friend. She is a little rednecky and not in the good way. And the baby, Sarah tells me, has no anus. They have to have surgery to ‘rebuild the anus’.”
“I’m thinking, Oh My God. I’ve never heard of that in my life. What is going on? Why are these babies getting so many terrible things happening to them right now? I think Sarah’s been having trouble getting pregnant and I say - ‘Oh, Sass, maybe it’s not the right time. Maybe it’s just as well that you don’t have a baby right now. I’ve never heard of that before, a baby without an anus. Oh My God. They don’t even know what else is wrong.’”
“And she says, ‘Too late.’”
I tell Lauren, “This is just typical, isn’t it? Typical for Sarah and me. No wonder I worry. That’s how she broke it to me.”
We laugh.
I do worry, but I do believe that it will be okay, too.
It’s funny, how it can hit you but this rock story, with my impending real life grand-something coming along in a few months and the loss of my own mother came crashing into me this past Mother’s Day.
My mother was just the best grandmother. I remember when she died going home sifting through all the memories. Because she lived with me, the entire house is filled with her. I came across letters and cards. There are little boxes that she took the time to beautify, gluing fancy paper onto, wallpapered cigar boxes held utility and beauty, both. There’s her lists, her organized wallet, her neat and orderly coupons, for God’s sake. She has books and books of years cutting out decorating ideas from magazines before anyone ever heard of Scrapbooking. The cookbooks, sorted and used. The recipes most often utilized taped on the inside of the cabinets.
I watched a video of her, where she held the camera. It was one of those horrible snowed in weekends which are frequent here. I had my period and felt like blah. I was bloated and icky, wanted to be left alone and in no way, shape or form wanted to be the subject of my mother’s camera-taking. We had a typical weekend, Sarah, myself and my mother. Sarah would hide in my mother’s room watching old black and white movies. When she watched Rita Hayworth, in a movie called “You Were Never Lovelier” she’d come out in full fledged glamour-mode. The stolen dress over her clothes, the trumping around in high heels, barely not tripping over herself and the swoon of the dance in her head all culminating in the overly dramatic movement of my dearest, dearest girl. Me, trying my best to ignore it all as my mother’s camera takes it all in. There we are fixing dinner. Me in baggy sweat pants, Sarah, with her uncombed hair, in formal dress, helping me prep the carrots. At some point, I am in the snow, shoveling us out. I look absolutely ridiculous. I have the ever present overly baggy mint green sweatpants on with a bright red coat and homemade knit or crocheted white hat from my Grandmother’s sharp wardrobe. My mother points the camera at me from inside the doorway. You can hear the wind as she asks me “Is it cold?” With complete disdain for the question and my crappy life, I say “Yes. It is cold. In case my posterity never experiences snow, rest assured. It is cold. It sucks.” She laughs.
Then my oldest niece comes to the rescue with her boyfriend at the time and they plow us out. My mother makes up a song, “There is nothing like a plow….nothing in the world.” It’s a rip-off of “There is nothing like a dame” from Guys and Dolls and it is hilarious. She is “wow, wow, wow-ing” as they remove the snow from the driveway. You can see the driver, laughing at the crazy old lady with her camera.
But this is the part that gets me. Later on, Sarah is in her glory, in her Grandmother’s room, sitting on her bed propped up surrounded by her jewelry watching some magical old movie. My mother holds the giant VHS camera with one hand, reaches out in front of it to brush Sarah’s hair. And I break. My mother’s hands reaching into the moment with love to just let her know that she’s there, she loves her. I could not stop thinking about all the good things my mother’s hand accomplished during her 66 years on earth. Those babies she held, the meals she made, the comfort, the hugs, the work performed. How her large hands held us up and still do, even in death.
And for some reason, the rock and the hands and my becoming a grandmother made me sad even though I know this is going to be one of the happiest times of my life. I feel the tick-tock of the clock and feel time closing in on me. What the hell have your hands accomplished? How can you ever live up to that kind of love? You mean well but you poke into people’s business too much. Boy, I wanted to hug my mother more than anything this past Mother’s Day. In my head, sometimes if I really try I can hear her advice. That day I could hear her tell me that it would all be okay. She told me I had a good heart.
My mother used to tell me the best advice. I never knew it because I misunderstood as all daughters do. We’re always thinking mothers are criticizing when really they are guiding. She’d say -
Who appointed you the class critic?
No one ever said “life was fair”.
That’s not very lady-like.
Lighten up.
Are you wearing that?
Have faith, Anne.
Let it go.
All those days, those many sacred days and tiny insignificant moments that slipped by without thought… Why hadn’t I appreciated their glory more?
I am thinking about all these things and more as Lauren and I enjoy each other’s company on our journey.
At long last, we reach the stadium. We finally reach our seats and it is a beautiful night. The band plays its magic and we are both enjoying the experience. I look around. This is a decidedly younger crowd than my typical concert. The DMB fans are much more in the 30s and 40s category than the 50s and 60s I am getting accustomed to seeing.
I peruse the crowd. It is swaying, dancing, singing along. This is where I have the revelation that it will, yes, it will be alright.
At one point, I tell her I’m going to buy some more beer. Decisions, decisions. Should I go in the longer line to the right that has more premium brands of Draft Beer? Should I go to the shorter line on left that has Bud Light? I hate Bud Light. I go to the longer line, then go to the shorter line. Suck it up, it’s okay, just have the crappy Bud Light.
Lord, there are only two options for beer here -- Bud Light and “Value Beer”. What the hell is “Value Beer”? Oh well, get the Bud Light and be quiet.
I notice a couple ahead of me - a girl and guy in their 30s. She is sweetly reaching into her pocket, showing a ticket stub saying, “I found my ticket.” He does not say anything, just shakes his head. It seems like he may be a little annoyed at this. He is a big kid, over 6 feet tall, with the long beard his generation likes. He looks like a giant, a full bearded giant.
I say, “I had the same thing happen to me one time. My husband lost his ticket to see Steely Dan and we weren’t married at the time. It was a big pain. But we got married and it more or less worked out.” She says, “Well, you got married. That’s good. Happily ever after?” I say, “More or less. Sorta kinda happily, up and down, back and forthily ever after. Where are you guys from?”
She says, “Ohio.”
I think…oh boy. I wonder if they are doing okay here. We can be such snobs in Massachusetts. We really aren’t the friendliest bunch to outsiders. Without a doubt, we know we are the smartest; we have the best schools; we have the coolest places. Boston is nicknamed “the hub”, meaning it is the center of the universe, and we actually believe it is. If you’ve grown up here, you have all these pre-built relationships and it can be hard to break into the club.
I say, “You should make it up to him by buying him a beer.”
She says, “Yes. I can do that. I can buy you a beer.”
We are making small talk, but I like them. They are a cute couple. As we make our way towards the top of the line I notice how playful they are towards each other. He orders 6 beers and when asked to pay, points to me and says, “She’s paying.”
I laugh and say, “You want me to pay? Oh, man, I’ll buy you a beer.” I like both of them and don’t mind at all.
He’s already got his credit card out, ready to buy me two beers because he is a man and every single man I have ever known loves to tease. He was joking around and had intended to buy me two beers all along.
I say, “No. I want to buy you a beer.” I hand money to the cashier and then I look. It’s the damn value beer. I say, “You could have picked better.” Everyone in the line laughs at that. We are all in a good mood, enjoying DMB and soaking in the joy that is supposed to happen at concerts.
He says, “You don’t like that beer? Okay.” And he proceeds to drink the beer.
Now, there are rules about buying and drinking beer at these concerts. You have to have a license, even if you look older than God, because everyone gets carded. You can only buy two drinks at a time, no exceptions. And you cannot drink at the front of the line and re-order. That is absolutely forbidden.
The girl behind the counter freaks out.
“You can’t do that. You cannot drink that here. Stop. Now.”
He continues drinking. Screw her.
Everyone in line is saying, “Forget it. It’s nothing.”
She calls security.
He runs over towards the stairs and is quickly surrounded by security. They are not police, obviously, but they have the power to throw you in jail if you get out of hand.
He is screaming at them about his rights.
“You have no right! I did not do anything wrong! What the fuck! I bought the beer legally. You have NO RIGHT!”
I am thinking. Oh. My. God. What now? This is insane. All of this over a nice gesture? He isacting like an angry lunatic and is going to end up going to jail over nothing.
I talk to one of them, “Can I explain what happened? I bought the beer, not him.” I explain about the value beer and the whole thing is a mess and the girl should not have bothered calling them and it is all a big mistake.
He is SCREAMING at them.
I ask the girl, “What’s his name?”
“Brian”.
I say, “Brian. Stop.” I am pushing this giant guy in the chest.
“Brian, I could be your mother here.”
He ignores me, continues his belligerence.
I ask her, “Is he angry like this all the time?”
She nods. Yes.
“Brian, your behavior is unacceptable. Brian, don’t you know we are all screwed? Hey, you have no right to act this way.” I’m thinking of the story my niece told me about her autistic son. “Brian, you have your sight, your hearing. You have no sick children. You have no right to behave this way.”
This isn’t working.
I am now begging the pseudo police to please let me talk to him. I convince them that I can calm him down and by some miracle, they leave.
He continues to scream and holler.
I say, “Hey Brian, do you want to know something? We all have to deal with assholes. Everyone is in the same boat and everyone has to deal. Do you want to know a tactic? I want to tell you a story. This behavior is not acceptable. You are not allowed to be this angry. We all have gripes and issues, Brian, but we cannot act this way.” I keep telling him, “I’m like your mother. Listen to me for a minute.”
Brian is like a tree. He is a huge, unbending tree. But he listens.
I say, “I was ripped off one time. This guy was going to fix my basement and I had taken out thousands of dollars. I had taken a loan from my 401K. I borrowed it and it was going to take me five years to pay it back. ”
“He gambled my money away and never did the work. I gave it to him right before the Super Bowl, but he bet using my money, losing it on the game.”
“I was so mad, Brian, it consumed me. Who the hell was this guy to do that to me? I had to work five years to pay it back! He just took it! I was beside myself. Every day, all I could think about was this guy.”
He tells me, ‘Yeah. You were right! Who the hell was he to do that?”
I say, “Yes, but my behavior was wrong. It was ruining me. I could not think of anything else. My anger was consuming me. It was all I could think about, night and day. You know what I did to get rid of the anger?”
“I put it all inside an enormous box. I stuffed the entire thing in there, imagining the anger, the money, the guy, the whole situation, I shoved it all inside the box. I took it and loaded it onto a catapult and flung it into the ocean. It made a giant splash and I had to do it over and over in my mind. But finally I wasn’t angry.”
“And you know what happened? Years later, my cousin was working in the DA’s office in New Hampshire. She said, ‘Was that guy that ripped you off in your basement named Nick something?’ It was the same guy, Brian. They got him and put him in jail in New Hampshire. The karma came around, finally.”
“You just have to let it go.”
I said, “Brian, I love you and I am like a mother to you. You cannot act this way; it is not acceptable behavior. You cannot be this angry.”
He told me, “You are such a good person. It’s been so long since I met a good person.”
That was just so sad to hear. You have not met any good people? How long has it been since you met a good person, Brian? I hugged him and told him he was a good person, too.
He was still shouting when I left him, but the girl told me I was getting through to him.
When I told him I loved him, I meant it. I still mean it.
I thought, seconds ago, I saw the future and believed it was going to be fine. I still think that, but I know my generation is still needed. The Mamas and the Papas are always needed. And the future is going to be fine, but we need to be there to hold hands, hug one another, lift each other up. We need to continually express our life in acts of love, by extension to our neighbors, even the Ohio Brians of the world, and maybe even especially the lovely, angry Brians with the good hearts and quick tempers.
You never know why you go through things until much later. And now, the story of Brian is always going to be connected to the grandchild rock, which is the hope for the future, hang on tight rock.
[1] Emily Dickinson poem, “Hope” is the thing with Feathers