The Red Strokes

Chapter 1 - Lilah

Locusts. Although they show themselves once every seventeen years, their relentless drone is enough to drive a sane woman mad. At least that's what Heddie Mae always said. She would say that like a kidney stone, a year of locusts was something seared into memory. I've witnessed three such appearances, and it isn't their incessant whirr or the black confetti clouds they form, but the events marked by each visit I recall in vivid detail.

The first time I heard the locusts was in 1979; I was eight. That year, I replaced my imaginary friend, Hope, with my best friend, Adele Bauman, the only child of the town's postmaster. My sister, Mia, was also born that year. Mia was too little to play with and she threw up a lot, but Heddie Mae taught me how to change diapers and would sometimes let me feed the baby, so it didn't take long before I favored my new sister over any of my toys. Nineteen seventy-nine was also the year my mother went away for the first time. "Went away" held hundreds of possibilities to a child with a healthy imagination. I daydreamed of my mother being in far-away places, meeting famous people, and talking about important kinds of things that never happen in Pennsylvania. I just knew when my mother returned, I'd fall asleep each night to stories of her many adventures. But there were never any stories. She was gone for what seemed longer than a summer break and when she finally came home, she was quiet and took most of her meals in her room. I had to ask Heddie Mae for permission any time I wanted to see my mother. I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong, but knew something was because if I put my ear against my bedroom wall, just below a framed picture of Jesus, I could hear her crying when she was alone and thought no one was listening. I remember 1979 as being a sad year, but not without happiness.

The second time I heard them was in 1996. I had married my college boyfriend, Bryan, in front of a magistrate and two clerks not long after the birth of our only child. A beautiful little girl with molasses-colored hair and unusually long fingers and toes, we named her Doriah. But before the ink on Doriah's birth certificate was dry, Bryan and I found ourselves staring at our freshly inked divorce papers. In less than one year, I had gained a degree, a marriage, a child, and a divorce. I felt as if I had done so much living, but it left me with no clue as to who I was or where the lessons learned were supposed to guide me. Looking back, it was a happy year overall.

But not without sadness.

This year is no different. The locusts began arriving yesterday, and already the events of 2013 have earmarked it as a year I will not soon forget.

* * *

There's an unseasonable chill this morning, but I don't mind it. I've been sitting on the front porch since the phone rattled me from a dream I no longer remember. What I do remember are the words that invaded those gray moments between sleep and wake. Somehow, I always knew the call would come early, before coffee, a shower, or the newspaper—before grogginess gave way to the mental clarity I would need to process such a short but powerful sentence. Although I had expected it for some time, even wished for it a time or two, I hadn't expected the tone in which Mia delivered it. "Father's gone," came with no more emotion than if she were announcing a trip to the farmer's market or the chance of rain.

I close my eyes, pull in a deep breath, and then hold, count, release, and repeat. Pranayama breathing. I learned the technique during a yoga class I took after the death of my second husband, Scotty. The belief is that controlling one's breathing is the key to controlling one's mind. I'm not sure it works, but if nothing else all the counting keeps my mind occupied. I'm grateful for the diversion, even though I know the peace will end once my sisters arrive.

Staring through the fog as the sun tugs it upward, I think about my sisters. There are sisters who enjoy a relationship that's as intimate as a heartbeat and others who grasp at something that's as vague as a breeze. My sisters have been the source of many emotions for me. Mia has been the source of pride, envy, and insecurity while my youngest sister, Val, evokes admiration, courage, and strength. Together, they've also been the cause of my frustration with their constant bickering and unwillingness to bend. My parents produced three daughters, sisters as individual as snowflakes with a kinship resembling a stick and plate balancing act. It takes constant work and the slightest misstep threatens to bring it to a shattering end. Yet among our many differences is a bond, a common thread that has carried us through decades of both happy and sad tears. Heddie Mae called it the heartstring. She told me family is born in blood, but held together by its heartstring. Over the years, and on many occasions, my sisters and I stretched our heartstring until it frayed, but we somehow always managed to pull together just before it snapped. I often wonder if we will always be able to make our way back from the brink of irreconcilable differences or if one day our heartstring will lose its elasticity.