Being Human

I’ll Write Again

/ Elizabeth Gaucher / 4 Comments

Dear Mom and Dad —

I miss you, and I don’t. But mostly I do.

Some days I miss you both at the same, and some days I only miss one of you and not so much the other.

I suppose in those ways it’s not so different from when you were alive. There are days of deep connection and need, and days of pleasant distance. As has always been true.

I realized today that for the first time one of your grandchildren is going to college, it’s official. And you won’t know it. But I have to believe you know it. You were both such champions of education, public and private and all the in-between, I have to believe you left this life in confidence that those of us left behind would keep moving that needle in a wide variety of ways.

Mom, I’m spraying this gorgeous new perfume by St. Clair in Vermont. I use it in front of your bridal portrait, which is on my dresser. You would love it.

Dad, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things you left behind that you held onto for decades. Things like your honorary pins from junior high school and high school and college.

Things like that notepad I found when we cleaned out Grandmother’s house. “Things to do today — get out of town before it’s too late.”

It’s getting easier to write again.

I can talk to you now without a reaction, or a game plan, or a response. I can say things to you — I realize it’s not quite fair, I’m not talking to you — things that I need to express, things that were never things I could just tell you. I’m thinking a lot about how as a parent I’m sure it’s a forever challenge to not respond, to just listen and receive and sit with things, because we are supposed to give advice. We are supposed to help and guide and be part of who they are. Or so we are told.

But as my own child grows up, I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I think it’s okay to be quiet.

I think it’s important to be quiet.

I think it’s good to stand in the shadows, and occasionally clear my throat. But to stay right in the shadow of who she is becoming.

I’m sorry it was so hard at the end. I suppose like every other person who has ever lived, I wanted a way to make the bad things go away. I couldn’t do that. But I wanted to.

Anyway, I love you both. And now, yeah…..I’m missing you both. Insert tearful cursing.

I’ll write again.

For all of us.

E.

This Is Always about The Shoes

/ Elizabeth Gaucher / Leave a comment
These were them, all right.

I want to tell you about the shoes.

I want to tell you enough but not too much, or certainly not the wrong things.

About the shoes.

Because this, in my subconscious, this is always about the shoes. It’s never about a movement disorder. It’s never about balance, It’s standing, in the shoes, by my coworker’s desk, talking to him about a design project, and then I’m walking with intent to the office door. I smile at him, I say, I’ll be right back! Then I walk out the door, and make sure it closes all the way behind me; I even make it a few steps to a lobby area.

And then I stop, and I look both ways before I cross into the long hallway. I turn right. I pause. I take off the shoes.

And now I’m running. No, I’m not running, I don’t do that anymore. But I am moving as quickly as I can, in, if you can believe it, pantyhosed feet. It’s silent.

It’s deafening.

I’m taking a bathroom break, no big deal. I get there, always looking around.

I get what I came for, and in the stall I put the shoes back on. Anyone who looks under here sees the shoes. I walk out and smile at the woman washing her hands, and then I do the same as she did. I wash my hands. And I walk out another door into the hallway. I look down the hall. Damn. It’s really long.

I think about Michael, back at his desk. I think about how much I like working with him, how we click in the work, how grateful I am to have the opportunity to create with him and to learn. But I look both ways before I head back to the office because getting there means taking off my shoes.

This is a vibrant space with multiple business operations, and no one here is without shoes. But I take the shoes off, and I skitter back to my office door.

I pause.

I look around.

I put on my shoes, and I open the door.

Michael is still working but looks up to say something like, Let’s keep going.

I say yes.

But what I want to tell you about is the shoes.

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A version of this essay was originally published by PD Wise in May 2021, https://pdwise.com/stories/the-shoes/.