Not Built on Nothing
It’s odd—maybe even a little upside-down—how what you find in the attic can prove to be the foundation of your life.
During the winter months, my second husband and I place several covers on our bed.
First there is the bedspread, followed by the quilt a friend made for us as a Christmas present, followed by two afghans, one crocheted by my grandmother as a gift when I finished college (something she later regretted, as she then had to crochet an afghan for each of her other four grandchildren), the other crocheted by my great-grandmother. I like to look at these works of art and love, wonder what stories were stitched and hooked into the still-bright colors.
In the previous century, before the era of smartphones and social media, before I became an English-as-a-second-language teacher in the public schools, I taught writing to adults on the fringes of society in the Raleigh area. I was part of a group of writers teaching writing to people who had little voice, whose stories had been overlooked, forgotten, or disregarded, as much by themselves as by the rest of the world.
“You are the only one who can tell your story,” I would say to them. “You are the only one who knows what the world is like through your eyes.” And then I would listen.
We all want to be listened to completely and without distraction. How many times a day are you truly listened to? How many times do you offer your full attention to another? Through this work, I came to believe that listening to other people recount their story is a profound way of saying, “Your words matter. Your life matters.”
He went on, “My family’s existence makes my existence make sense, if you know what I mean. Without my family, I imagine myself adrift. I suspect I’m not alone in that feeling.”
There is a line from Norman Jewison’s 1987 film Moonstruck, toward the end of the movie, when Rose (played by the incomparable Olympia Dukakis) tells her husband Cosmo, “Your life is not built on nothing.” It’s good to be reminded of this truth regularly. And if we can’t do it for ourselves, hopefully there is at least one person in our life who can—especially when we are feeling downcast, perhaps even falling prey to the idea that were we not here, no one would miss us.
I don’t believe in the adage, “No one is indispensable.” I think there are people in our lives who cannot be replaced. I was married once before, and even though he and I are both (happily, for the most part) remarried, my first husband holds a unique place in my heart. There isn’t anyone else like him, and I will always be grateful for the love we had together, for the stories that were and are ours alone. A friend recently wrote to me about his father’s failing health, and how the prospect of his parents’ death “makes me realize what a deep sense of loneliness I will experience without [them].” He went on, “My family’s existence makes my existence make sense, if you know what I mean. Without my family, I imagine myself adrift. I suspect I’m not alone in that feeling.”
My parents just arrived from Florida, where they spend half the year. They are in the process of moving to a new residence up here and have to pack up all their belongings over the next week and a half. This will entail going through all their closets (at last count, nine, plus a full attic and basement) and deciding what can be thrown out, what given away, and what kept. My mother and I attacked the attic today. We spent about three hours going through every box, examining all the photos and documents, remembering people, places and stories. We turned up a small album of photographs from my first wedding. It took place thirty-one years ago this year. The family and friends who travelled from Massachusetts were thrilled to arrive in a glorious North Carolina springtime. The photographs are filled with light and laughter, love and happiness. They are vibrant with color and energy. There are several snaps of my first husband and me running and dancing through a wide meadow, our joy unbounded.
When he’d finished, I asked him what he was thinking. He said it was a little sad, seeing the photos and knowing the marriage was going to end. And then he added, “Just because a marriage doesn’t last doesn’t mean it was a mistake.”
I took the album home with me, and later in the evening asked my second husband if he would like to see it. He agreed, settled himself down on the sofa and put on his reading glasses. He then examined every photo, carefully and with attention to detail, as he does with every task he takes on. When he’d finished, I asked him what he was thinking. He said it was a little sad, seeing the photos and knowing the marriage was going to end. And then he added, “Just because a marriage doesn’t last doesn’t mean it was a mistake.”
The scene with Rose and Cosmo ends with her taking a deep breath and telling him, “Ti amo,” to which he responds by smiling at her with tenderness and love, saying, “Anch’io te amo,” touching his fingers to his lips and then holding out his hand to her, reassuring. And she breathes in, exhales, and you know they are going to be all right. The love is still there.
Few of us look forward to the process of moving. It’s up there as one of the top five stressors, and my mother is certainly stressed about all she must do in preparation. But it felt like something of a gift today, to give proper time and attention to the mementos of stories from our lives. To transform what could have been a tedious and tiring task and find nuggets of beauty and meaning instead. To be reminded that our lives are not built on nothing, that in the end, we all become the stories we tell.
About the author
Carole Greenfield grew up in Colombia, spent several years in North Carolina, and now resides in New England, where she teaches multilingual learners at a public elementary school. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Airplane Reading and Dodging the Rain, among others.