When the Wall Came Down, It All Made Sense

A few years ago, my parents decided to remodel our home. My sister and I had moved out by then, both of us soon to be married.

My parents got ready for a new life of their own. They emptied out the house and put everything in storage. They took a sledgehammer to a wall in the kitchen to make the space look larger. I remember that day because we all took turns swinging, and as the hole got bigger and bigger, we took pictures of us poking our heads through the wall.

Somewhere in between the time they moved out and the house was completed, my parents announced they were getting divorced. By the time the house was livable again, life just wasn’t the same.

In the central patio of our home, where my parents once laid wet cement, my mother had scribbled her name and the year. During the months before the house sold, before the divorce was finalized, that slab of  cement was a permanent reminder that she had lived there. This was once hers. No amount of rain or tears could ever wash that away.

Every time I walked by that cement I was reminded that the seeds for great writing are everywhere if we pay close enough attention, if we see things not just for what they are but what they mean. I write because it’s the only way I know to make sense of reality—its pains and pleasures and everything in between. Because words are powerful, not just in what they say but in what they leave unsaid.

Like my mother’s scribbles: a name, a year. But they say: I am leaving this life behind, but I was here. This is my mark, my proof.

There’s bravery in her quiet inscription. I think of it each time I write, and hope that my words are strong as concrete, as permanent as a message written with a tree branch before the cement dries.