Stretching Wide (About What We Leave Behind)

We drove along Route 66, out of Kansas and all the way west. Philip stared straight at the road ahead, his hands relaxed at the bottom of the wheel.

I was thinking about our kids, Jade and Ethan. They both live in California now.

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“We came from nothing,” my dead mom’s voice always echoed in my head. I grew up without a television, so I had no idea how poor we were. When you have nothing to compare yourself with, I guess that’s the ticket to happiness.

Silence filled the car. Neither of us wanted to turn the radio on. We were used to the quiet—in twenty years of marriage, there had been a lot of it. And we were comfortable with that.

The scenery hadn’t changed much. The same types of trees had been singing the same note for an hour. Their arms stretched wide, hugging each other as if afraid one of them might fall.

The day I left for college, my school counselor came to pick me up at 7 a.m. None of my family were home. Maybe they weren’t there on purpose—I don’t remember. That was thirty years ago. My mom and dad died consecutively over the past ten years, and my two brothers still live in the same old house we grew up in. I haven't seen or talked to them since the funeral.

“You okay?” Philip asked. I jumped.

“Sorry, hon—deep in thought?” he said apologetically.

“Yeah, just thinking about my two old brothers.”

“Oh, Barb,” he said, placing his hand on my knee.

“You know there’s nothing you can do about it, right? You’ve tried your very best,” he said tenderly.

Indeed, I had tried my best. I had called, mailed letters, and even once drove up to Connecticut to try to see them. But they didn’t want to see me. We were right outside the house—they just pretended they weren’t home. I knew both of them were there because I saw Charlie smoking his pipe from the attic window right before we walked up.

“Maybe they hold a grudge against you for leaving them behind,” Philip had said to me as we gave up on the forever-unanswered door and started walking back to the car. I had tears in my eyes, but I held them in until we were inside.

I can see that.

I can see why they’d resent me for leaving—but I would’ve resented them if I hadn’t. Sometimes, we have to make selfish decisions, or we cannot live.

I leave nothing behind. As the years go by, I keep telling myself that. I’ve been slowly, slowly hardening my heart and letting things go. There’s nothing I can do, not anymore.

“You’ll never be fully detached, Pancake—” Philip told me once, when I was sobbing into his chest. “You have such a tender heart, you know.”

The trees were still passing by outside the window. I wanted to move forward, to get rid of the same old trees—only to realize that I am one of them. I’m the one afraid of falling, so I stretch my arms wide to hold on to the rest. And they hold me back, too—so I’ll never leave them behind.