July 13: No One to Help, Childhood Home, Oliver Twist

Santiago has no one to help him . . . 

That was the saddest thing I ever saw with them, the old man thought. The boy was sad too and we begged her pardon and butchered her promptly.

"I wish the boy was here," he said aloud and settled himself against the rounded planks of the bow and felt the strength of the great fish through the line he held across his shoulders moving steadily toward whatever he had chosen.

When once, through my treachery, it had been necessary to him to make a choice, the old man thought.

His choice had been to stay in the deep dark water far out beyond all snares and traps and treacheries. My choice was to go there to find him beyond all people. Beyond all people in the world. Now we are joined together and have been since noon. And no one to help either one of us.

Yes, Santiago realizes that he's on his own.  Him and the fish.  Two old creatures of salt and water.  

Last night, I found out that my sister is planning to sell the house I grew up in.  Both of my parents are gone.  My sister with Downs syndrome died almost six months ago.  Now, it's just my two oldest sisters living in a huge dwelling that once contained a horde of about twelve people.  I get it.

As much as I would love to see my childhood home stay in the family, I understand that is not what my sister wants.  After the house sells, there's a chance that both of my sisters will be moving across the country to live in Washington.  At the very least, one of them will most definitely be leaving.

And then, in this little Upper Peninsula town where I grew up, I will be the only member of my family remaining (if my second sister decides to leave, as well).  That makes me feel fairly . . . "alone" is the best word I can come up with.  Like Santiago by himself in the middle of the ocean.

I've been at sea (pun intended) about this news all day long.  My family used to be pretty tight.  We saw or spoke to each other on a daily basis.  Had dinners together.  Looked out for one another.  That's the way our parents raised us.  I suppose a therapist might label all of us  "codependent," and that would be a fair observation.  

But things change.  Through marriage.  Kids.  Divorce.  Death.  Mental illness.  Addictions.  Hard feelings.  Bad blood.  It's inevitable.  I don't get along with all of my siblings that well, for reasons complex and personal.  We just don't see the world the same way.  Harmony is simply not in the cards for us.  I accept that.

Last night, sitting on my couch in the dark, I thought of how scattered we all are, mentally and emotionally and geographically.  I had a close friend once who thought my family was a real-life Brady Bunch.  Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.  The seeds of what's happening now were planted a long, long time ago.

I never realized how it's possible to feel like Oliver Twist when I grew up in Cheaper by the Dozen.  

Saint Marty's blessing of the day:  a couple of hours sitting with a friend in her garden, writing poetry.