Thursday, February 18, 2016

what love cannot do

It cannot save itself when it expires 
like a tire’s slow leak. 
It cannot bring back the greediness of youth

I go to Home Depot with my father.
I am in Manhattan travel garb: a necklace, sweater, vest, scarf, shawl, large brown bag, and lipstick.
I am not in the same clothes as a typical Home Depot customer.
I am tired from traveling early in the morning, thus, I am eager to make our way to the Rancho, and not be wandering around Home Depot looking for purple paint.
I am eager to be with my mother, aunt, and grandmother, who are mourning the loss of Da Bill.
I am not at all eager to be in Home Depot.
I am, however, happy to be with my father.
Through the eyes of a feminist narrative, I am, again, a sharp and talented woman simply following around the male authority.
This gives me great discomfort.
For I do not want to have men dictate what I do, nor do I want to be captive to their demands.
This is not what I want.
I do, however, want to be with my father.
And I want to be with my family.
I want to be doing what I came this weekend to do: simply be with my family.
And this is my family, here.
And I am with him, because that is the entire point of living:
 Being with the people you love.
And so, I think to myself: no, I choose to be at this Home Depot. I choose to be here. I choose to be a strange outcast in this lumber mill, because I love my father and my grandmother needs purple spray paint to mark her property line against the poachers.
I choose to be here.
I also choose to go with my father to Food Lion and pick up alcohol and snack food.
Because, eventually, I will want wine.
And because, although I want to get to the Rancho, the dream of every young child is begging their parents to buy them junk food (or artichokes) in the super market. And here is my father, offering to buy junk food in the super market.
We buy all the snacks I love and some I don't.
That comes like a blinding shard of grace. How all my frantic wondering and looking about for answers comes to a dread halt.
And I am simply a child with her father in the supermarket.
Where even bad wine, bought together, is a comforting sacrament of love.

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