It’s a weeknight in the late fall. It’s early, not even 6pm yet, but you could swear it’s been dark since lunch. The weather feels frustrating. Everything has turned cold and drab.
You and your wife step out to run a quick errand, and on the way home a disagreement arises. Something about that issue with the water heater.
You speed your words, eager to get your points out before hers. (Your breathing and thinking hasten too, but you don’t notice.)
When she does speak, you roll your eyes. She’s told you how much she hates that, and she’s asked you not to do it. What’s the harm if she doesn’t see though, right?
Soon, it’s an argument. You clench up—jaw, brow, upper lip. “Huffing and puffing.” These are just the words of little kids’ stories… until they’re not. Hearing the word “no” is like running into a brick wall.
It sort of gets squashed at the end of the sidewalk, before you go back into the house. But under the kitchen lights, which are glaring and fluorescent in your memory, she goes to clarify something and you lose your balance. The current pulls you under, and now you’re in a fight.
You take your proverbial corner. Your voice sharpens, and your tone turns harsh. You interrupt again, your words sounding like a pointed finger. (And yet somehow, you find it in you to complain that she never hears what you have to say).
You catch yourself right as you’re about to shout, and you go silent. It’s not a peaceful silence, however. You are rigid and distant, giving one-word answers and avoiding eye contact. (The term for this, you later recall, is stonewalling, and it is yet another form of communicative violence.)
.
Even with all of this happening, the two of you still need to eat dinner. You grab the vegetables and a cutting board, along with a bag of Tostitos and some salsa. You snack as you begrudgingly chop broccoli.
The entire house is on edge. The small dog has retreated into the bedroom, to the safety and softness of the blankets. The big one stands at her side as she folds clothes, his tail between his legs and the whites of his eyes visible from across the room. The empath of the family, he is skittish and pleading:
“Please stop. This is such a waste of time.”
He does not like you very much right now, and he doesn’t hide that, and you can’t stand it.
Your solution is reflexive. Without thinking, you reach into the bag of chips and turn his way.
“Come here, buddy.” You say it as lightly as you can, in that sing-songy voice reserved for dogs and babies.
His ears perk up and he hurries over. You knew that would happen.
When he comes to you, you hold the chip just above his snout and pause for a beat, making sure he sees it in your hand.
“Here you go.”
You drop it and he catches it in mid air, chewing and swallowing and looking up at you to ask, with satisfaction, if there will be more.
And then you freeze.
.
All of a sudden, two scenes from your past come rushing into view.
In one, a child stands in his own kitchen, timid and tired and wishing, more than anything, that the tirade would just stop.
In the other, it is Christmas morning, and the same child is sitting in a living room overflowing with unwrapped presents. He keeps an eye on the clock, and while he likes the Nintendo, it doesn’t take the sting out of the fact that his dad has a flight to catch in a few hours.
All that talking you do about how pain is generational. How it gets passed down. How he learned it and she learned it and they learned it and we all learned it from somewhere, from someone.
And now here you are, asking a creature in your care to walk in those same old shoes. You met friction with venom, and when your dog’s demeanor betrayed how that hurt him, you reached for an object rather than accountability.
That chip was about making you feel better, not him.
For a moment, you want to hate yourself. You want to hate your father. You want to hate them all.
But you don’t.
You just wait until the morning,
when you will grab your notebook and a pen
and sit down to write something
about apples
and falling
and trees.
Valley Haggard’s Life in 10 Minutes class changed my life. It’s also where I first drafted this piece.
If you enjoyed this post, you might like these, too:
Interested in writing yourself?
You Have a Story is in the middle of summer sessions, but if you’d like to drop in and see what we’re all about, you’re welcome to do so. Just shoot me an email. Otherwise, I’ll have August/September dates up soon. There’s zero experience necessary, and the point is writing for the sake of it, not necessarily to publish. Here’s what a few attendees have said about their experience.
Finally: I recently came across Sara and Sean Watkins singing a song called Grief and Praise, and I’m very touched by the words. The chorus reminds me of another post I wrote about my dog:
Though all that you love will be taken some day
By the angel of death or the servants of change
In a floodwater tide without rancor or rage
Sing loud while you're able in grief and in praise
Turns out it’s written by a guy named Glen Phillips, who also penned what I consider to be an all-timer from the 90s.
In another universe not far from this one, I’m a music writer.
Be well,
Jonathan
Again, beautiful. We're right there with you in the room; we feel the tension.