I Write Because I am Shattered
My grandfather, an alcoholic, once lifted his end of the dining room table so that the whole dinner, all of the dishes and food for a family of seven, slid down into the lap of my grandmother, a paraplegic. Glass shattered, gravy oozed over the side of the table, kids sat silently. I imagine my mom, as the oldest, led the cleanup effort. My grandmother couldn’t wipe up the pile of mashed potatoes from her wheelchair.
All of us are addicted to something — alcohol, sex, the to-do list, TikTok — something we think we cannot live without, something that feels like it might keep the shattered pieces together.
Who could I have been if my mom were not shattered, if her mom and dad were not shattered? I write to find that person or to find the pieces and put them back together one small shard at a time.
