Natalie Marino

If trauma were a house, you could stand at a front door made of rust. You could walk through the foyer and see your mother’s cabinet full of fine dishes. You could see your therapist sitting in the living room. You could see her hand-sewing a quilt in an aging leather armchair. You could notice her silence as you walked by.

If trauma were a house, you could wonder who let the two mourning doves in the kitchen. You could see them standing together on the window sill. You could see the gray pair isn’t going anywhere. You could remember your mother and grandmother, their stories of the past, when men were men and women were women, when every girl dreamed of being Marilyn, even dreaming that her end could be their end. You could remember your mother and grandmother wringing their hands as they told fortunes, as they manifested the future. You could remember your grandmother with her orange hair telling you you’d never pass for white either. You could remember your grandmother telling you what an angel your mother was when she was a blonde little girl, even though her hair was dyed. You could remember that your grandmother wasn’t prejudiced against anyone more than herself, how she had to make everyone, including you, the punch line of a joke.

If trauma were a house, you could remember that your grandmother also sewed clothes for you, that she also made you that tiny felt house with a family of mice in matching velvet jackets. You could remember how you loved to play with them, how you spent hours watching The Wizard of Oz over and over again by yourself while your parents were at work, just to see Dorothy clicking her heels to finally get home. You could remember how on Saturday mornings you pleaded with your grandmother to watch and translate her telenovelas while she smoked cigarettes. You could remember you knew you wouldn’t ever fully understand. You could remember she never asked for forgiveness for how she treated your mother and you, that you never really wanted to say goodbye. You could remember you loved her.

If trauma were a house, you could walk upstairs and find your college boyfriend and tell him you forgive him for letting you believe you could live your whole life fixing him, for letting you believe that you were lucky to be the one girl the handsome graduate student flirted with in French class. You could forgive him for his empty charm, for his alcoholism, for the crying all-night fights, for not being who you wanted him to be. You could forgive yourself for believing you were looking for him for years after it ended in an electrical fire. You could forgive yourself for assuming you must have asked the universe to give you bad luck, to tell you how beautiful you would never be. You could forgive yourself for taking so long to figure out you were wearing red sequined shoes all along, that there is no man behind the curtain, that every character in your dreams and nightmares was always you.

If trauma were a house, you could look above at the skylight in the ceiling. You could notice that it is now cracked open. You could see yourself open it further and float through. You could see you are now outside on the roof. You could see a baby summer tanager singing in an empty nest. You could see it hesitating and then finally flying away.