Paper Cranes: And the Multitude of Folds

4

My grandparents love me. I know that. My relationship with them, now, is way better than it was two, three, or even four years ago. This is the fold, the crease that was the hardest one. It is like when you start to mold the paper in an intricate way, you start to long for scissors and tape, the idea of making this fold work in order to construct the animal, intimidates you. That is how my grandparents fit. They pushed me out, years of wondering if they actually cared enough to ask how school was going, if they actually cared if I was eating, making friends, interested in who I was dating.

Max would sit with me while I explained everything that was going on with my grandparents. He never said anything bad about them. He would just listen and nod in that silent way he always did. He had a way of being caring, supportive, and calm all at the same time.

I remember him sitting with me at the park by our house, talking things over with me. He knew why they were like that because he was there through everything with Sarah. Helping me take care of my sisters, just like how I go over to his house and help with his six siblings. He knew that she was the favorite and how that ultimately made me feel.

My sister was the favorite, but rightfully so. She was the sick one. The one who almost died. She deserved all of the attention and love from everybody. I could handle being alone, strong, closed off from the world of love my family was offering. I wanted to be accommodating to the feelings and needs of those who needed it more. But where do I fit in all of this?

Now there is a block, a wall between me and them. A wall built from every time they ran to her first, asked her how she was doing, told my parents to stop worrying about me, and from the times they went out of their way to put together multiple parties for her birthday, driving to see her, when I only got a phone call...

___________

You wanted their love but it was needed somewhere else. You won't know their love for another four years and, when they offer it, you won't want it anymore.

___________

Sometimes there is a break, a break in the pattern of cranes holding my memories. A place where a string stops and reconnects somewhere else, later on in the pattern. When there is a moment of rejection, when I am pushed out of the lives of people close to me, a wall comes up. I tear apart that connection, pushing them out so the pain isn't as bad. I find that the string starts again, almost from scratch, and I am left building myself up again.