Stay

I've grown up loved by good men. My cousin Danny - I mean - look...

My Uncle Don

Jim Smith

My cousin Bruce

They were playful and smart and brave and strong and gentle. They listened to me and took me seriously. They asked me to help them do real things - they taught me how, and I helped. They saw me as useful. They made me feel cunning and able and funny and worthwhile.

They stayed.

Even when they were in way over their heads, even when they had no idea how to make things right or even better. They were messy and ill-equipped and uncertain and sometimes their fumbling caused real trouble; but their staying mattered more than anything.

Their staying matters more.

I grew up without a father.

I think my father was sweet and good. I think he was smart and strong and gentle. I think he was brave, in his way. He was messy and ill-equipped and uncertain and his fumbling caused real trouble; he couldn't stay.

I think I understand it. I think no one taught him.

I think that he was raised to think the trouble of feelings was not his trouble. Men work and protect, they keep people safe by scaring danger off or strangling it. And if feelings are the danger, well - keep us safe.

It didn't work for my father. He was brave and I think he tried

but the strangling he used to kill the danger of his feelings

strangled all of us.

Me.

I think I understand.

Staying is a mess. Staying with something alive and undisciplined - like love, like grief - that I don't understand while people stand close and watch me make

so many mistakes and I watch them get hit by my fall-out and I love them

and I want to be good and instead -

there I am. A mess.

It is hard.

 Still, I think maybe stay.

Look for things that make it easier. Believe that staying matters more than not messing up.

Stay.

 -Laura