I can't fix what I don't know I've broke

Today is the fifteen year anniversary of my moving from Vermont back down to Georgia. Mama took us kids up to Lyndonville, VT to live in a two-story farm-house at the foot of Finney Hill. I attended a two-grade, red school with a bell that was rung by a rope. Mama was taking philosophy courses and stained-glass classes and times had never been better.

I remember thinking from time to time that it would be nice to have dad around, but I don't remember missing him regularly.

I don't remember dad convincing mama to move back down to Georgia just to be near him. I guess either parent could have convinced me at that age that their decision was best, but I don't recall any one convincing me, or even asking.

I do remember the farewell party my fourth-grade class gave me. The carrot cake Mrs. Gorham made and all the signatures in the little autograph book from my clever class-mates.

I remember the movers were to come the next day after mama drove us kids back down to Georgia.

It was right after Christmas. I owned every My Little Pony that had been made, and every accessory. They were all in perfect condition. I also had new, brass, doll furniture that I had just gotten for Christmas. I deliberately packed every inch of my room and neatly stacked each box into my walk-in closet. I specifically told my father that that's where my things were.

The truck came to our home in Georgia in disarray. It was packed haphazardly. Mama swallowed hard because one condition for her moving back was that my father would handle all the hassle of the move. She knew she had lost in that bet. As in all bets with my father.

I watched one thing after another being removed. I saw things being unpacked that weren't supposed to have been packed in the first place. Dad told me he never looked in the closet. He wouldn't even have thought to; but, I told him...

There I stood, a nine-year-old girl one month after Christmas with not a possession besides what things she fit alongside her siblings in the hatchback of a Volkswagen Rabbit.

My father had told the man who helped him pack that he could have anything left in the house. I knew that man, and I knew his daughter about my age. I knew she would not take care of my pretty toys.

For a few days I hoped dad would tear down the gates of hell to get me back my things. Were they completely gone? Surely not so quickly. Surely there was still a chance.

Mama knew we'd gotten hosed. She held me and let me cry. She knew it wasn't materialism that got me, but the fact that my things tell the story of my life. Home is where your stuff is, she always said. Her heart broke with mine. She regreted believing him again (though it was not the last time).

My father never noticed my pain.

Maybe you don't either. Maybe this sounds funny to you. I can just see some of you laughing -- I won't name you but I know who you are -- becuase it sounds so fucking pathetic that fifteen years later I would mourn toys.

But really I'm remembering this day in 1988 when I learned too early that I can't trust people who are by definition my care-takers, and that only the things I do by myself are guaranteed.

So, maybe I'll go visit Vermont soon.