About a dozen of us gathered in a quiet restaurant. They have had these little get-togethers before, but it’s different for them. For the most part, they shared their entire school years together, graduating in 1972.
Susan, the woman who sat directly across the table from me said, “I sort of remember you. Something is familiar in your eyes.”
It’s weird being the kid who moved. You become a faint (if any) memory to your classmates. Just a smiling face in the group photo. “Remember Holly? She’s the one who moved.”
For the one who left, time stands still.
When my mother left my father in December 1963, I had no warning that my parents were divorcing. I had heard no arguments, no slammed doors. I was nine years old. So whatever the signs were, I missed them.
Like every day, my best friend Sherry and I walked home from school together. It was the beginning of our fourth grade Christmas break. In front of my house on Summer Street, a few men loaded boxes and furniture into a big black van.
Sherry said, “My grandmother told me your parents are getting a divorce.” Then crying, she ran up the front porch stairs and into her house.
Everyone has days in their past that defined the rest of their lives -- events or decisions that affected everything that came after. And in the years since that day, believe me, I've seen some big events. But that day, that moment, was very, very big for a small girl.
In an instant, I felt that I lost everything -- my family, my house, my friends, and my neighborhood -- my beloved Summer Street. I lost a part of my mother that day too, as she was newly in love and on an exciting, fresh path.
No doubt, others have sadder histories and I'm not looking for sympathy. I am writing this simply to reflect on it and to share my story.
In part to get this persistent vision out of my head, I created a piece of artwork. Here it is.
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