Flying Objects: Antique Lamp

And there it went. With the force of his hand, the antique lamp flew a short distance before crashing to the floor with an exaggerated combination of thud and shatter. The previous sounds of anger coming at from my dad were momentarily silenced as the air had been sucked out of our lung when my great-grandmothers lamp hit the floor splitting into hundreds of mosaic pieces of glass. As soon as the lamp was cracked opened, each sharp jagged piece began to simultaneously whisper of generations worth of hopes and dreams, sadness and determination. These intimate stories instantly escaped from the object, temporarily filling the room with stories of triumph and failure. And then they were gone. That was it. That was all it would take. In a crazy, selfish way, I was relieved. Yet, something in my gut knew that I was about to worse. Even though I knew now the focused anger would not be on me; I knew the anger was because of me. I was right. The escaped family stories disappeared out of the room, flying out the windows and through the cracks in the wall, seeping into the wall paper and sinking through the floor boards. They left the room just as fast as they had been poured into it. And just as soon as they were gone, the air returned to our lungs and we all looked up at one another. Really, my mom glared at my dad; my dads mouth partially open in stunned regret, looked remorsefully at my mom; while I looked back and forth at both of their faces. Im sorry, I squeaked out at both of them. I really was. I had been on the computer, which was in my mom and dads bedroom. I was using a computer program to study for my upcoming ACT test. My dad was tired from a long tough day and life and had asked me to wrap-it-up so he could go to bed. I had ignored him. I was on a roll and I wanted to finish the practice test I had started. I know he had asked me repeatedly. But I was happy. I was good mood because I felt the computer program was really helping me. Plus, I was just in a good mood, feeling the goodness of life floating around me. I didnt see the harm if he climbed into bed and just read or fell asleep as I finished what I was doing and chatted a little with mom. Kids dont see their parents realitythey can only feel it.

I felt it as my mom began to simultaneously cry and yell at my dad over the broken heirloom. Andy! What is wrong with you! My heart sunk so deep into my chest I felt my shoulders folding in around my chest as I morphed into a deformed shape of regret and sadness. I pleaded with my mom to not be angry at my dad: Mom, its my fault. I didnt listen. He had asked me. I didnt listen. Its my fault. Im sorry. I pleaded with my dad: Im sorry, dad. Im sorry I didnt listen, dad! I didnt know. I hadnt known I was yelled at to leave and go to my room. I slipped out of the computer chair passing the rubble of empty colorless glass shards and went hurried on the door barely touching the ground as I walked. I stood at the door for a minute, looking back at the usual faces and voices of my parents as they fought. My dads face resembled mine at the momentit usually did: a childish look of ignorance and regret. My moms face so often a contorted combination of anger and sadness. The images of their faces are permanently etched inside my head and inside my chest. I quietly closed the door and receded to my room where I laid on my bed looking out the window and wishing I could sneak out of the house and into the dark recesses of the quiet forest. As I stared into the shadowy movements of the trees that were so close to our house they nearly kissed our roof-line, my parents sad and angry voices floated further and further away. An inner, fluttering shift lifted me off the bed and gracefully into the arms of the trees. I felt the cool damp forest floor beneath my bare feet as I walked deeper and deeper into her loving embrace. And as I laid myself down on a cushion of dirt, leaves, and twigs, the soft ground below held me as the trees rocked me to sleep while the canopy of protecting branches above whispered a secret lullaby in my ears. This too shall pass. Nothing in nature ever remains the same. The wild must live its life knowing that it is a part of a bigger happening. Death must be in order to sustain and regenerate new life. There is a balance in the seeming chaos of nature. A balance that never questions; rather, it simply does what it should. A balance that never fights back; rather, it simply understands the process. Somewhere inside me I felt this balance and felt its purity and its peace: its safety.