Maladroit

Oh, siblings.

Who knows what the roots are doing, dislodging, under the surface, disturbing the tonnage of soil, disintegrating rock itself grabbing for moisture, blood, love?

In the early seedbed no feelings were concealed. We tried out everything in honesty: we whacked and banged against each other, poked and twisted wrists, hertz-donutted, and how far does your thumb bend back and how many freckles on your arm how loud can I cup my hands and yell in your ear inch me and pinch me were walking across a bridge build volcanoes in the sandbox burying the hose making igloos back by the garage side by side, never questioning our comradeship despising it at times, of course, in the utter free play of emotion, whole flow: you feel it, you say it, you watch it go.

All the emotions of Shakespeare were not more succinct: Wait up I’m gonna tell I hate you Stop it That’s mine I was here first Can I come Ow Look what I got Don’t I am not Mom It’s not fair What are you doing I’m sorry Oh ick Gimme that.

Once so easy of expression with each other—our words like flattened cardboard boxes slicking us down snowy hills: you feel it, you say it, you let it go.

But in the eighties, we’re clumsy with each other. Snow melted, leaving gouges, rough ground. Tread with caution, catch on vegetation, twist ankles on unseen roots.

We live vast geographies apart; visits are rare, phone calls occasional (oftener with Ro, now close to me as skin), between twos for news, and that stammery, oddly syncopated, yearly Christmas conference call.

Sometimes gladness takes us deep into the night, past competing puns and old sore spots. Beloved family cadences pull up the memories; our hearts rise like popovers.

But we share a wariness, for sooner or later, by commission or omission, in real or in imagined ways, we hurt each other, then intensify the pain with silence.

Underground rivers marsh up, muddy the walkways, secret feelings welling.

How could he say that? Why is it always her? He didn’t even listen.

Conversation encumbered with subtext. Are you angry and not telling me? Will what I say be used against me? For the good of the family, shall I hint that someone’s angry with you? Shall I assume responsibility for smoothing that relationship, for making peace? Who’s talking to Mom at the moment? What is she saying about me? Does silence do more or less damage? What is the good of the family?

With spouses or siblings (excluding the one in question, of course), we phone or gather, dissect character and motivation. Dominant and recessive angst, inner rooms heaping with psychic debris.

Angers, errors, conflicts, guilt: pass the basket round, take yours, pass it on.

Life is weathers passing over, coloring rock and lake and clover. Day or night, which is right?

And yet there’s such a thing as human decency.