Wrapped Tightly And Hidden

What were you thinking, Mom? You had to have thought I would have had access to your closet, and so much more.

If you wanted to continue to keep that part of your life a secret, why didn’t you just tear up and dispose of the contents of the brown paper package. You even re-tied the string that had kept it all a mystery for these last two decades. You must have realized that at the end of your beautiful life, I would be the keeper of the things that represented your full and vibrant existence.

God, it seems like a lifetime since I sat on the floor of your closet and read the package of papers and marveled at the many photos nestled between the pages. Wait, it was a lifetime! Just not mine.

I thought I was too numb to feel anything after your recent death. I was wrong. I’m not sure what I need to deal with and accept first. Your passing was such a surprise! It couldn’t have been more than two months ago that the Doctor said your cancer wasn’t aggressive. Well, that wasn’t true! And I feel aggressive just thinking of the optimistic face you wore for us all. You could have shared with me, Mom. I’m almost fifty. You could have trusted me, then you wouldn’t have had to die alone, just to keep a secret. I could have been there for you, like you always were for me.

But that was nothing compared to the secret I hold in my hands after I unwrapped the suspiciously large and hidden brown paper package tucked in the back of your clothes closet. Her name was, is Margaret. Just like mine. She was born four years before me, about two years before you married Dad. I get it. You were ashamed, afraid of what people would say and men like Dad would perhaps shun you. With the new DNA testing, there is no denying who she is and who she is not. And who she is, is my sister. My hidden and denied sister. The date on the front of the mailed package was over a year ago. You had all this time to share your past, and my sister with me. And you didn’t.

I’m not sure if my anger is about your secret life, or if it is just raw grief. I think one is fueling the other at this point. But it is the torn letter that I am clutching tight and to my chest that creates my deepest sense of loss. In the letter, Mother, Margaret begged and pleaded to meet us both. She has three children Mom, your grandchildren, my nieces. The letter that accompanied the photographs and papers is not her request to be part of our family. No, it is your rejection letter to her request. Mom, why were you so cold and dismissive of her need to re-connect? Your words were cruel and so un-like the loving, gentle mother I was allowed to have. She asked for nothing. She posed no threat.

In the package Margaret sent, along with the torn-up rejection letter, were photos of her as a child. She looked happy and healthy. She looked like me. Several were of her being loving flanked by two adults, who I can only assume were her adopted parents. Newspaper articles of her success on her High School hockey team made me proud of her strength as she broke down the gender barriers, we both had to deal with. She included samples of her art. She is an artist! Just like me. At the bottom of the stack of memorabilia is perhaps the answer to why you could not re-visit your past. Margaret had included a clipping from the small-town local newspaper where you lived as a young girl. It sadly reads that the investigation of the rape of a local college girl will end for lack of leads and evidence. God, Mom, it would have been ok! Dad left years ago, so we wouldn’t have had to include him, and his “judgie” ways. It would have been just you, me, Margaret and the three girls. Since I couldn’t give you grandchildren, this would have filled that us-spoken whole in your life and your heart.

If I’m honest Mom, it’s been hard doing this all alone. I could use a friend, a sister. The funeral is at noon, and I must pull myself together and get out of the back of your closet. I need to hurry so I can be the smiling greeter of a day I prayed would never come. I’d rather just push my back up against the farthest wall, pull your mother scented clothes over me and remain in this cocoon of your past. But the clock is ticking, and I have discovered enough for one day…

I feel so embarrassed and alienated. I alone, form the non-existent greeter’s line. It was truly, just you and me, Mom.

I am shaking the warm and firm grip of a lovely woman, with very sad eyes. The color and shape of my very sad eyes. I sense she wants to hug me, but gently pulls away, and takes her place at my side. Mom, Margaret is home, and she want to say “good-bye…”