Brave Buchanan #1

The sky is falling… or at least the junk I keep on top of my bookshelf is. In a hurried attempt to locate the cookbook I knew had been tossed up there at some point, it did not seem important to haul the stepstool out of the closet and all the way down the hall. I am forced to seriously reconsider that sense of urgency when the world comes crashing down all around me, brought down by an old picture frame.

It was a rare moment in a relationship dominated by bickering and anger. Our figures caught in the frame as they had been so seldom in life, laughter apparent in my eyes and a teasing smile splayed across his face. We shared so few moments like this one, especially at the end. In looking at the picture now, all I can see is an afternoon full of carefree joking and shared confidences.

We came about it completely by accident. I was supposed to be alone on the trip, but at the last minute his schedule came together. Traveling we were always at our best, away from the details of daily life that so easily fostered conflict. And this was one of those perfect summer days where the universe aligns just right, when the weather is hot but not stiflingly so and the whole world is in a good mood. Exploring a new city may be frightening for some, but for us it was just another adventure to be had. An adventure which would have consequences we could never have foreseen.

Culinary pursuits temporarily abandoned, all it takes is a handful of paper towels and some Windex to restore the picture to its original sparkle. If only Windex could so easily have fixed what was wrong with us. While it doesn’t seem right to shove the frame back underneath a pile of junk, I know that leaving it out will inevitably lead to questions I am not prepared to answer. I finally set it on one of the high corner shelves above the couch, where it will not be visible from the kitchen.

But out of sight does not mean out of mind, and suddenly everything is colored by the memory of that afternoon. My long hair feels like an anchor. The make-up I scorned then coats my face like shellac. Even the dress I have on is confining compared to the sundress in the picture. And the evening’s menu, which I have so carefully prepared, seems all wrong. Chowder and pork chops sound so heavy; a light summery meal is clearly in order. Never mind that it is the middle of October, never mind that I will have a house full of my closest friends in a matter of hours.

I head to the store hoping inspiration will strike as I roam the aisles, but the only thing that strikes me is a profound sense of sadness. That afternoon was the beginning of the end for us. What was, to me, a great opportunity in a fantastic city that we had explored together, seemed to him just another lark. Another excuse to stay away from the real world which I had already avoided for far too long. For the first time, I realize what that afternoon set in motion and what I have given up by walking away. Moments when he should have been with me, experiences we would have shared flash before my eyes like the life I could have had coming to an end without warning. Obviously I have not missed the endless arguments and constant criticism. No one could endure that on a daily basis without effect. One more shouting match, one more disapproving remark and I knew I would surely crumble. But was complete isolation necessary for me to remain whole? It certainly felt that way when I walked out the door without looking back.

I will never truly know if I could have done it differently and survived. It is too late to go back and undo my determined exit. We will never have a chance at another perfect afternoon. Reality crashes down on me as roughly as the picture frame had. My father is dead, has been for months. The permanence of it is etched upon my heart like no shouted insult or angry cursing ever has been. But instead of polishing up our relationship like I did the picture frame, I will hold onto the scars. I will go home and make the meal I planned for the family I have chosen. I will put the picture away, in the back of a closet where it can be forgotten until I lose a coat or a pair of shoes. And the next time I rummage around on top of my bookcase, I will use the stepstool.