The World Is Made Up of Stories, Not of Atoms

How do partners in a relationship remain one–connected, soul, mind, body, genitals, skin, scent–when they both have individual histories? And what if those histories are painful?

I open the house that we share to family that is connected to me via my lover, family who is also my own, in the same way as one can look at animals and recognize human similarities; or in nature, peaceful and integrated—a life force—or violent and destructive.

Aside from having the similarities of these things, we share everything else: a desk, house, dog, my secrets, his intimacy, physical pain, the tendency to indulge, the desire to improve things like life, emotion, connection, food, efficiency, community, relationships.

The things we share connect us, but we remain individual, the way two roots intertwine for a while but are still part of the same tree. His mother is mine, father similar, sister my own.

When our family comes to our house for Passover, our family friends come too. We cook together, eat together, sing at seder, smile, laugh, make a mess, clean the dishes. I wash the dishes, my lover hands them to me. I stand there, waiting for the dishes, my hands wrinkled and soapy from scrubbing a cast-iron pot, listening to our family friends ask about our photographs.

Our friend says, “Did you take this one?”

I say, “Which?”

“Of the Twin Towers,” he asks. My lover says, “No, E bought it a while ago.” The friend says, making a joke, “Oh, that’s interesting. Maybe, maybe E was the terrorist! Maybe that’s why she has this picture!” Our friend’s son says, “No, maybe the terrorists–”

“No,” my lover interrupts.

“What?” they ask.

“No,” my lover repeats. “Just stop. Stop.”

Our mother asks me mid-tear if it’s okay to put a bowl in the dishwasher. I nod. My lover comes to me, I take out our garbage, put it in our garbage can, hear our upstairs neighbors and I cry outside, dirt and cool tile beneath my feet. Someone explains to our friend my situation, I assume. However, therein lies the problem: this situation is not one that we all share.

I am severed, something in my brain is pulsing and my heart is not behaving and something in my throat will not allow itself to be swallowed. And the result: I am disconnected, set apart from our friends, family, the our in general.

I am exhibited, watched. so I do what i have learned to do: I force the rock to swallow, I scold my beating heart, distract the pain in my head. I wipe my face and breathe in and out and go back inside.

Where were you? they wonder. I took out the garbage.

Our friend thanks me profusely for dinner. He mentions how my lover should come shooting with him. I ask to come too.

Have you shot a gun before? No, but I’ve always wanted to. I’d love to teach you! And your lover can be our target practice!

We laugh. He hugs me goodbye. Thank you so much for coming, I say, and I mean it. Thank you for having us. I’m sorry about your dad, he says softly. You’re so welcome for dinner, I say, We’ll see you guys soon!

I wave goodbye. I kiss my lover’s mother and father, hug our friends goodbye, dry the dishes, put the leftovers in Tupperware. They hug me tight, everyone does. I hug them just as tight, feeling grateful for the extra tenderness and solidified acceptance. But in feeling grateful I feel guilty, for that thankfulness was precipitated by an uninformed friend, whose comment was precipitated by a catastrophic event that shook my legs and feet and house and soul. It joined me with people who could not hold me up, supplied many broken connections, emotionally intense conversations, tears (obviously), strong family ties, a fear of what will happen to my loved ones.

So how am I integrated when I am inherently, emotionally separate at times? When I want to both be a part of and apart from? It’s a duality that is insidious, infiltrating my personality and corrupting my friendliness. and sometimes, when I forget what has happened, when I remember my dad and taking walks in Double Trouble Park and the cranberry bogs and how he made lemon ice during the summer so we didn’t have to spend our money at Mrs. Walker’s.

When I think of him apart from “Terrorism” and “Ground Zero” and “Nine Eleven” and “September 11th” and “Hijackers” and “Airplanes,” my self shows through. I am happy, soft, I smile, I embrace friends, I kiss my dog, my family, hold hands, sing off key. I write, I am happy complaining about simple things like traffic and rain because I know these things will not keep me in bed.

In the morning, when I remember things uncomplicated and the dog licks my face, I smile, roll over to touch my lover, I say good morning. I get out of bed and am eager to live. and I am. I am here. I breathe-in experience. I breathe-out poetry.