come away with me.

Here's what will happen:

You will come home. Dad will be washing dishes. Sinatra will be playing, or some big band. The door will open and the kids will run forward, yelling mom, surrounding you until you drop your bags. You will not be tired. You will laugh. Dad will say, we missed you. You will hug him. You will have a treat for him, a small gift for all of us. Dad will have made spaghetti. There will be a plate set for you and your noodles won't be cold. We will all sit on the couch by you as you tell us about your trip. Dad will look at you like he has the world and you will return his gaze. Maybe that evening, we will watch a movie. How about that? We will have icecream from the freezer and we will each have a large bowl. Maybe you will ask for seconds. Dad will make bacon cheese potato skins and we will each get two. We will watch Lord of the Rings, because we only watched it with you once, mom. We will watch the third one, out of order for you, because we know how much you like the scene where they light the beacons. You remember that? Of course you do. Once when you were gone, we watched The Return of the King in Chloe and my room with grandpa, grandma, Laura, and Dad. We put it on the projector and it lit up the wall with Gondor. When we got to that scene, dad mentioned how much you loved it. I got chills and that dim space felt like heaven. I haven't forgotten, you know. We will watch that movie and you will sit by dad and when it gets to the part with Shelob, you will cover your face with a pillow and he will tell you when it's over.

Okay? That's not so much to ask, is it?

God, momma, I miss you.

remembering.

After your parents divorce, is it still okay to talk about funny, normal things?

For example: my parents both took Italian in college.

On the way up to the lake, we pulled into a parking lot of a church by our house to secure the canoe on the suburban. My dad took a picture and my mother said, don't take the picture until I pull my pants down. She almost fell over laughing. My grandpa and dad exchanged eyes and laughed and I laughed until I cried. We reminded her of it the entire vacation. We make too light of these instances, dismissing them as the butter when they are really the bread.

Mom's mispronunciations of Krusteaz pancakes at Christmas time. The bag of pistachios grandma always gave dad. A new skillet one year when the tree was in the living room, all white on the floor and the walls.

Mom always bought a special treat for my father on the way home from Costco. He always gave her flowers on their anniversary.

One year they went to Fitgers up in Duluth with my baby brother Brennan, and they came home with a stuffed moose.

When Chloe and I were old enough to watch The Lord of the Rings, we spent several weeks watching the trilogy with mom and dad. We watched all the credits on the last movie, a tradition I continue. We stayed up late looking up our Elvish and Hobbit names online.

My mother was embarrassed with public displays of affection, even if public meant our living room.

Who will get the car bed? We asked, and mom said, it will stay at grandma and grandpa Martin's. When there was still going to be a grandma and grandpa Martin's.

My mother took photos of my grandpa eating on our trip to California. My dad loved it. There's a photo of the two of them eating icecream when they were dating and it's still on my grandpa's easel.

In an apartment I shouldn't remember because I was too little, we turned on the tall, sleek black lamp and the light in the room was a warm, rich yellow in the twilight. My mother turned up Tears for Fears or Christian rock of the late 90's and we danced to it. All of us.

Silly things like that. The things that matter most. I'm forgetting them and it terrifies me. How can I say these things and then announce, they're divorced now. Where is the line? What's appropriate and inappropriate and who gets to decide? How do I speak about my history when the present is divided? It would be easier to erase my roots versus go through the pain of replanting. Trees carry their memories in rings and each line is a circle of sorrow, of hallelujah. I daresay after grief, there will be no joy that does not carry with it a remembered sorrow.

'Cause you're shivering cold.

Once we watched August Rush past midnight with mom and dad. Chloe and I. We laid blankets on the floor and stayed up late. Eleven was late. I had to babysit the next morning. I don't know if I should stay up this late, I said to mom and dad. We understand, they said, but they encouraged me to watch anyways. It's not that late, they said. How many nights like this will we have, they said, and now looking back, my heart races. What if. But I watched. There was one sex scene and Chloe and I were just newly initiated into the reality of what that meant. We looked away, embarrassed watching with our parents two people make love. There were blankets, you couldn't see anything. Still. At eleven, dad said, hey, what if we order a pizza. Imagine that. These were the days before celiac disease, perhaps before Sam was born. We were carefree, because we didn't believe anything could touch us. Dad ordered pizza from Dominos, I think when Evan (August) listened to the music of the fields. Mom and Dad were happy, I remember, and I remember feeling so happy, I remember brimming until I feared I'd collapse. My whole body screamed in fear of keeping this moment good. We ate green olive and canadian bacon pizza on pink and blue plastic plates while watching August Rush. That was a good movie, mom said when it was over. She liked the music. Dad liked the story. She sat by dad. They went to bed together. I told Sheila the next morning that I had stayed up until one watching a movie with my parents. I remember this, listening to the soundtrack on my grandma's couch. My skin cracks anew. One sone in particular rips off my bandages without warning. If I close my eyes, I see the warmth of that night, the bubble that surrounded us amid darkness.

So long you've been running in circles
'Round what's at stake
But now the times come for your feet to stand still in one place
You wanna reach out
You wanna give in
Your head's wrapped around what's around the next bend
You wish you could find something warm

'Cause you're shivering cold

It's the first thing you see as you open your eyes
The last thing you say as your saying goodbye
Something inside you is crying and driving you on
It's the first thing you see as you open your eyes
The last thing you say as your saying goodbye
Something inside you is crying and driving you on

beautiful.

1 AM in the morning and the garage light is yellow and your uncle and aunt, or almost aunt even though they're not married, are smoking cigarettes making the black velvet sky blue like ash. And they're telling you about their baby and the tragedy and triumph of birth, and you're leaning against their smooth car with a couple packs of marlboro's on the fender, arms crossed and head nodding as you listen to them open. You didn't expect this, or regret. Your uncle opens his palms and cradles his arms together, holding a baby that is not there. They put her in your arms, he says, and she's so small and fragile, and you just think, I better not bleep this up. You want to cry. You tuck his words away and repeat them like a prayer. His cradled hands, the shimmer of fire on the driveway before it's extinguished. There's an intense beauty and bittersweetness to this moment, as all moments are when there is no beginning, no ending, no yesterday or tomorrow but only the present, only the sweet thickness of smoke while everyone lies asleep, only the arms holding a baby that is not there, only the inhales and exhales and the way stories tumble out of you when you're open to the sky, vulnerable. And you think, how can I leave and in the exact instant, the reasons you need to stay are the reasons you must go.

1 AM in the morning and your uncle and aunt are speaking and you and the whole world are listening and waiting for the first syllable and when they come the words burn the air like fire, and every breath is a please, and every shot of ash in your lungs is a step on eggshells. Don't lose this. Don't break this.

Beautiful.