The scrapbook is full of love. It rests on the living room coffee table.
Healing is a slow and ongoing process.
As the years wore on Kenneth did nothing but work; worked at his job, worked at fixing up the house, worked in the orchard, worked expanding the rose garden, and worked the vegetable garden. He rescued two stray cats and three dogs. Factory workers coming to and from work ran over the dogs. The dogs added to the list of things to grieve.
After the death of each dog, Mary looked for the jewel saying, “Anthony where is the jewel?”
Occasionally Kenneth would smile or laugh and when he did the world brightened for those precious moments----then he would sink back down into his whirl of fretting. Discovering his boys had no interest in sports, especially basketball added to his list of things to be sad about.
Thelma concentrated on her art and daily responsibilities at the furniture factory.
Timothy, the oldest was the champion, the go-getter, the model child that Thelma had so carefully crafted. He managed the household responsibilities and overseeing chores, laundry, clean rooms, homework, piano practice and checking on Mary’s sewing projects.
Mary soon learned that Timothy was the smart one, the one who outshined everyone. In any room he was the brightest light, the one everyone turned to admire. He was the first born, and though they would deny it, his parents favorite.
Anthony was a silent assistant of Timothy. He quietly followed orders. He followed his dad around learning what tools to use for what, how to fix a leak, make a wall frame, insert a new window or work in the gardens.
Mary got less support, less consideration but still compared to the yardstick of her brothers. She felt third best, always found lacking in some vital ingredient for success. She and Edie’s sewing machine were friends. Her creations gave her much satisfaction.
All three children did well in school. None of them had a social life. None of them took part in after-school activities. They felt a responsibility to take care of each other and their home.
Timothy spent the year after graduating from high school working a three-hour shift seven days a week doing janitorial work at the factory. He spent hours in the orchard, took immaculate care of the rose garden and the surrounding landscape, and spruced up the house inside and out. He was busy following proper maintenance and inspection schedules. Everything shined with perfection. This made his mother happy, and he enjoyed seeing her smile. Her smiles reflected in her art. The sunnier pieces seemed to sell more often.
He and his dad no longer bicycled. They no longer took walks through the woods, watching how the light plays on the trees and the birds swoop. He felt the exercise would boost his spirits. He needed those things to feel happy.
Kenneth when he was not working his shift at the factory, he sat on the mound left from the old farmhouse. After the explosion, this mound was the most egregious eyesore on the property but over the months and years it turned into something appealing.
With blood, sweat, and tears, Kenneth and his sons transformed this sunny site to a spectacular rose garden, using a mix of cuttings and new plants. Craving the lush, fully petal fragrance of a classic rose they planted old-fashioned roses blended with other perennials and shrubs.
No one knew that Kenneth sat thinking I cannot recall my child-self, the kid who loved sunshine and rain all the same. The morning my parents and my home vanished with one loud boom I saw only darkness around the light and soon there were no more colors in my world. The blue that once was healing now has become void and cold. The thing is I just do not care. I sit here cold, comfortable, and numb.
The day Anthony graduated from high school. Timothy thought it is finally here, the steppingstone to the real world. He had prepared for this moment. It was time for him and his brother to step out into the world.
The boys watched movies, listened to the shrill news media, and politicians keeping the romantic emotion alive. Each played a role in encouraging them to serve their country. These guys were the ones who would lay down life and limb to do what was right. God gave them their arms for love, for helping, for kindness and peace. Now it was time to use their arms for the good.
They took the piece of paper handed to them, read it, and signed on the dotted line. Both boys were now in the Army, grabbing their ticket to freedom and ready to prove they could accomplish something.
Everyone in the Army obeyed orders. In the Army you moved as one. Both boys did that their whole life, working together as a team for the good of the family. The Army and their family both worked as if there were just one brain. Now the young Turner men filled the ranks with other warm uniformed bodies in heavy boots. They were fast learners and obeyed their superiors without question. After boot camp they would probably separate, but until then they connected.
Writing letters home was the most difficult for both. Putting pen to paper opened their locked down emotions. At the time they thwarted any suffering that interfered with their work or survival. Anthony always cried when he wrote. He was a poor speller, so he did not use big words. His letters were brief notes, always showing tear stains.
Kenneth walked to the end of the garden path and stood looking at the mailbox. It brought a smile to his face. It looked like a large birdhouse with a hole in the front large enough for the mail and mounted on a pole. The boys painted many bright colors in such a way you could imagine it being decorated by nursery school kids. Well, it was. The mailbox was a project that Miki, Kenneth, and their dad worked on together. Kenneth picked up the mail and smiled. He thought I remember being happy. Now the years of grief condensed right above my head and turned into a large cloud blocking all the sun.
He sat on the porch swing, read the notes from the boys, and watched the petals drop from the full blooming roses. He could not help but think I have let only creeping sorrow in where there should be the joy.
Stepping Out
When Mary was younger, she had to stay at home for the long nights of discontent. Now that she was older, she would grab her coat, hit the road where it was quiet and walk. She was not a girl anymore and she never would be again. No longer did she hang on mom’s words or want to be like her, determined to be as different as possible. One day she bagged all her clothes and took them to the thrift store. She would design and make her own clothes.
She reached a certain point in her life when she wanted to be independent. She had the feeling that she needed an adventure, something exciting and new, to show everyone that she was old enough to be on her own for once.
One lovely balmy morning, Mary woke in a maddening rush to get a part-time job. She was in her last year of high school and had no social life. Her brothers enlisted in the Army, making the comfort of home less comfortable. Her sewing skills were such she yearned to style fabrics and materials beyond her means. If she had a job, freedom and independence would be within reach. She took her first steps to becoming a grown-up.
As the day moved on, the sky became overwhelmed with emotion, reminding her of the years being stricken with the heavy load of emotions. As memories flashed through her mind, tears threatened to unleash themselves. Mary found a tiny café huddled despondent among two buildings. She eyed the sky nervously. The morning clouds that were wispy and white, now were turning darker and denser. Mary quickened her pace and opened the door to a warm and cheery interior, with bright lights, colorful walls, and smells of pumpkin spice cakes.
Her stomach clenched with hunger at the thought of sweet, honey rolls. She could imagine the warm, fluffy bun dripping with amber-colored liquid. As sweet, savory aromas lingered in the air, she focused on finding a seat.
Looking around Mary observed white china pots on round tables that mostly seated just two people, but at least one person occupied them all. Although Mary was a complete and real person, she was also something like a rag doll in that she came with a lot of “stuffing.” This stuffing composed of the notions, beliefs, thoughts, and feelings she had developed over the years.
Some