When I’m home it’s, “you got any coffee?” When I’m home it’s “do you like it up there?” When I’m home it’s endless questions and determinations of good and bad or right and wrong or ugly and pretty. People trying to make sense of the world they’ve never fully been lost in. I think it would be nice to live in their bubble; their safe, happy bubble where the world can easily be detected. Where it is easily mapped out–good, bad, confusing, worthwhile, trash, impressive, something. And the things that don’t make sense have a home in the nonsense pile, and the things that change have a place in the things change pile. Sometimes wouldn’t it be simpler to be more like that? To not have a critical thought about every word that comes out of your mouth?
The Truth, where is it? It’s not in the cups of coffee we drink and it’s not in the scratchy voices of my brothers. Sometimes I think it’s in the palms of the hands of my nephew. So tiny he can only grip the girth of my thumbs with his whole hand.
My mother wants the truth to be in our success. In our well-being. My brother wants the truth to be in nice things. In the watch gripping my sister’s wrist, in the sunglasses on the bridge of our baby brother’s nose. In the frame on the wall. My uncle wants to find truth in the order of the world. In the way we live and work. My cousin wants the truth to live in authority. In his dad, in the cops, in his girlfriend’s bossy demeanor–in me, sometimes. Me, who goes cross-eyed in my attempt to explain why the Truth cannot be had.
Where will the truth be when I wake up in the morning? It’s elusive like the winter sun. Sometimes there and bright and blinding. Sometimes angled and orange and away from me.
You grow up knowing how easily the truth can be shaped. My word against yours, “tattle-tale.” We grew up in puddles of truth. Veils.
How do I tell them, the truth is in the dirt in the bed. The truth is in my sister’s boyfriend’s felony charge. The truth is in the baby’s red angry rash in the crevice of his neck. The truth is in the sharply dyed hair of my brother’s girlfriend. The truth is in the empty shed of my cousin’s new home. The truth is in the apple tree that was torn down years ago and the pond that is so shallow a four-wheeler can drive across the center. The truth is in the decrepit. In the weathering away of the future that once was.
We lose our perspective in the sadness, I think. Instead of being sad, we should focus more on being resounding. On creating a resonating feeling that’s not sadness– as the only way to stay afloat in the wetness. I think also we focus too much on Truth. This Truth, we have to forget it. We have to reconcile with the fact that Truth for everyone is Truth truth. That there is no Truth, only truth, and that everyone is trying to live their own truth (T), and forget the rest. Forget trying to achieve the rest because there are too many truths (T) to combine and make into anything else. Too much pressure to achieve the Truth, rather than making the most of our truth and using that truth to help others make the most of their truth.
When I say tell me the truth, I used to mean Truth, but what I mean is tell me how you’ve seen it. Because I realize now, I’ve been the only one to see it.