Settlers

We watched things cascade like a waterfall, starting with the first plate she broke. Standing at the counter, looking down at her phone instead of paying attention, she dropped it, scattering shards on the floor. You played it off even though your brain hates when the collections are incomplete, and swept it up, joking that she could be more careful. She barely heard you over her own giggling at a joke someone else made. Nevermind the mess. You just told us to stay out of the kitchen and put up the kiddie barrier, so we wouldn't be tempted to cut our feet and paint your perfect floor red.

It came out again the same night at dinner when you asked about her day and she ranted for nearly an hour about someone named David while you huffed and angrily stirred your spatzel even though they were already coated in paprikash. We heard your hushed reprimanding on deaf ears as we tried to sleep and Tina asked if everything was okay and I shrugged because I knew it was better to ignore it. Ignore your rising anger as our mother went on and on about other people that made her feel like you never could. Sit and watch as you made up people to compete because you couldn't stand that her life was moving and yours wasn't.

My sister and I watched it all happen like a reality show. A mild discrepance would drive you to the point of fighting whoever it involved and a hushed truce would be whispered in your room. Tina and I grew accustomed to going outside when the voices got too loud then staying out all night then only coming home when we ran out of clothes at our boyfriends' houses. Taking the car to escape. Feigned attempts at family therapy that left us teetering on another tier of cards that are a breeze from toppling. The cat became the reason you were together when Tina went to college. The grandkids wouldn't understand Grandma moving out. Your friends would talk, your morgage would skyrocket, your bed would be so cold... We just watched, signing to each other that something would give.

It finally did. David died and Mom was buried with hin. She sat in that one place, with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching the world pass by. Watching the kids learn to walk, then get jobs, then drive. You fumed silently as you always did until Thanksgiving when the kettle started screaming. It started with another broken plate, one you threw at the wall because she cried that you donated David's favorite blouse. The whole family watched as thirty years of words fumed from your fingers. You threw the blue plate she loved, then the yellow, then the red and green and slammed the matching bowls against the counters and attacked the stemware. The kids covered their ears as we did before. We retreated outside as always, my sister taking a smoke and signing that it'll end soon. It'll all blow over. This won't last.

My daughter helped Mom pick up the plates as she cried, and my husband tried to calm you down. He played Aretha Franklin and let you feel the calming vibrations. Mom bit her lip until it bled and picked the pieces up bare handed, staining the floor. She didn't seem to care. It was all over, we were convinced. We all left, murmuring goodbye and wondering what would happen. On Black Friday, you were both back sitting together on the couch, hand in hand, shouting at the Clemson game. Tina looked at me knowingly. It was better to just stay quiet and let you guys do what you did best.