The Bridge Between

Growing up, the ground beneath us felt unstable. Divorcing when I was young, my sisters and I bounced between my father and mother physically and mentally. We soon became the bridge between them, playing a game of telephone with their words to each other.

Me and my sisters’ relationship soon transformed into one that reflected the instability of my mother’s and father’s relationship and the tensions in the family. Happy memories became clouded with contempt and grievance. Our “childhood home” soon became multiple homes at once - usually always down the road from each other, close enough to escape from one and find refuge in the other. These homes became something less than what the word meant, and I soon tried to find markings of home in ocean tides and old oak trees, but never fully succeeded. Though I found comfort within the landscape, the tensions still lingered.

As my sisters and I grew up, the relationship between my parents, and our relationship to our parents, began to shift as time began to heal wounds and my sisters and I began to realize the human nature of our own parents. Though our relationships are not bitter or hurtful, there is still an underlying tension that references the past.

A scar left to remind us of what took place.