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.