Gems

My feet sink into the wet sand as the tide flushes by, covering everything in disappearing crystals of warm ocean.

I’m running, I think, and the spray clings to my ankles, obscuring my legs from the lens.

My head is towards the horizon, body flailing all on my own,

Dad’s in the picture too, right next to me, supporting my little brother with impressive poise and muscles.

He’s wearing his Bahamas fish shirt, the most comfortable of all his clothing,

Soft and covered in colorful angel fish - I know once I get cold, that shirt is mine, and I’ll happily drown myself in the precious fabric.

I’m content now; everything is at peace, and my family is happy.

I remember thinking that would never change.

But I was wrong.

So fucking wrong.

I don’t know it in this moment,

But the woman behind the camera is sick.

The struggle with her addiction has already started, and it will be around 6 years before my father gives up -

Accepts it,

Allows it,

Works long hours about it,

Is rarely home because of it.

It’s 5 years later and my first year of high school has nearly destroyed me -

I am a child, and I refuse to grow up because it hurts to be responsible for these big feelings.

I raise my little brother in my parents’ stead, and I do an awful job.

I’m a terrible parent, and we both fall into addiction of different kinds, as well as a distant, uncomfortable silence.

We connect over our love for drugs once he enters high school,

But the distance gets wider when he moves into heavier things,

And suddenly, the tentative control I had grasped was gone -

A-fucking-gain.

I’m in college when my father gives him an ultimatum, at the same time, my mother enters rehab for the third time, and he picks a life of service.

The letters from boot camp start up 4 months after he signs his papers, three days before my birthday, and they’re dreadful.

I hold onto hope that this will help,

That he will come home better,

Different,

Maybe even healed.

And even though he isn’t healed, he is more himself when he comes back.

By this time, I have learned to be grateful for small wins -

We celebrate past our bedtimes.

I keep this picture as a bookmark for decades, only recently retiring it because the edges are so frayed they’re eating at my precious memory.

In between the spray, my missing shins, the bluest water in the background, and an endless sky are all the things that have hurt me, and the white, chalky paper encroaching on the colors feels like an attempt to take this joy from me, too.

I’m 28 by the time Mom is totally clean,

I’m 35 by the time my brother and I find common ground again and a tentative peace between us,

I’m 37 by the time I retire the picture and place it on my wall, deciding to preserve the goodness of the memory and separate it from all the things that hurt me, lurking in between the clear sky and endless, blue water crashing into the sand.