By: Gerri Graves

Word on the Street Issue 49, November 2024

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A Hindu festival of lights. It symbolizes the spiritual victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance. It’s celebrated for 5-6 consecutive days during the month of October and November, starting on a moonless night. It encompasses decorating homes with candles, flowers and mango leaves, sharing sweets with family and friends, gift exchanging, firecrackers and worshiping deities like Lord Ganesha and Goddess Lakshmi. 

I truly loathe this time of year. Not only for the ignorance of the plight of the indigenous, but mostly because it represents family get-togethers in November and December. I remember feigning interest when my coworkers all booked their flights back home and rejoiced in their sheer, unadulterated glee in doing so. (Insert fake smile here) 

But……I was adopted AND, adopted by a family that never wanted me. My adoptive mother thought she couldn’t have children. But SURPRISE….. a year and a half later, she did indeed become pregnant. She went on to have three of her own, and I was relegated to the unenviable column of the spare. The Cinderella in my story, sans the prince. No prince would ever make a glass shoe big enough for these feet, let me tell you what! I looked nothing like them. Short, dark hair & blue eyes. Me? Tall, blonde, green eyed misfit. With hands so big, your husbands would think twice before a challenge. An amazonian warrior, I thought of myself. 

All proud, tough and no nonsense, except for my passive nature and leery pervasiveness. I had no desire to come to the attention of my stepfather…..but his attention found me nonetheless. 

My childhood was filled with back breaking work and responsibilities at much too early of an age. Intermingled with the not-so-occasional beat down…..both mentally and physically. I took it, because I had to. I never imagined anything more than the garbage I was dealt. I did dream, though. I read so many books during my younger years…..and they gave me that. That art of dreaming myself out of the world I was adopted into. As I grew older, my passivity gave way to obstinance and my scaredy cat tactics evolved into……. “I ain’t afraid of nothin!” 

However….. I still stayed in relationships that any normal person would have extricated themselves from. My childhood trained me to accept terrible situations and carry on. I thought that was all I was good enough for. 

A damaged person makes excuses for other damaged peoples’ antics. Mind you, I didn’t dwell on my childhood. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I just carried on. I accepted, tried not to cause waves…..and carried on. I existed this way well into my thirties. Never reconciling. Never addressing old wounds. Just, existing. Let me pivot here a sec. Bear with me while I take you from one place to another. 

I recently came across a poem I had written 20 years ago. I was looking for an old photo and it was in one of my many boxes of writing. 20 years ago, I met someone. Conversation was easy. He was easy, interesting, sweet and so intelligent. I was heartbroken over the recent loss of my daughter, resigned to a gloomy future and truly, just cherished the understanding company, without all the unwanted sympathy. It turned into something more a few months into our friendship, and for once in my life, I changed my own fate. I wanted something and I went after it. That poem was for him. I’d like to say things worked out and I got my happy ending, but if you’ve been reading my stuff, you probably know it didn’t. I never wanted or tried for what I wanted, again. I settled, got divorced and have not dated one person since then. 

When we’re young, love is all hormones, butterflies and beating hearts. As we mature, it mellows into cream and sugar that when mixed, over low heat, amalgamates into something resembling caramel. It’s not just about our heart anymore, it has more to do with our mind. A meeting of the minds. I guess I should be grateful for that glimmer of hope he gave me, but I’m not that big of a person. I’m not angry or spiteful…… I just accepted the end and moved on. Just like I’ve always done. 

Love. Whether it be familial or other, has always escaped me. Its nothing I can change, nor……if I’m being honest, I’d want to change. It’s not something I want anymore, and so the chase is done. The chase comes in the wanting, therefore I’ll take a ringside seat in solitude. Nothing wrong with that. I rather enjoy my alone time. No running around trying to make everyone happy, while I stay miserable. Yup. I bow out and leave it to the younger generation to write poems of love. I wrote my last one 20 years ago. Butterflies don’t reside in my belly any longer and my beating heart only flutters at the sight of pie. November and December is pie season, afterall. No need to add family or beau, just bring on the d*** pie! My son and I will spend Thanksgiving alone, again. We’ll spend Christmas that way too. Next year will be the same. And the year after that. And the year after that. 

Until my body passes from this mortal coil. My spirit will wrap around the ashes that once were me and I’ll carry them to a distant land, leave them to lap gently against the shore……..and I’ll dream of love no more.