A thousand deleted sentences. A million edited words. Number of successful times I've illustrated my true self? Zero.
Okay there's more.
She renamed herself Shona(one who dreams) at thirty two years old, leaving Cathy Jean behind in Oregon. She set out for Alaska in search of her true self, and a nursing degree. This has every bit to do with who I am, because this is the woman who raised me.
She'd always been an artist, in earlier years her paintbrush the pen, her journals the canvass. She revisited childhood memories on the beaches of Hawaii and California, broken hearts in Eugene, and femininity in Anchorage. These books were never intended for fame, they were honest, raw pages of self reflection, preservation, and discovery.
Pearls of wisdom, journals found in an old box.
Before you judge me, I want to note that I'd never intended to violate this woman's privacy, I sat staring at a tan flower printed cover for what seemed an eternity. I contemplated boxing these books back up and forgetting their wareabouts. The name Lester rang through my mind, this man had been a complete mystery my whole life, however brief. I couldn't overcome the curiosity of discovering this man. Half of me was missing, if I could find it by flipping through a few stolen pages...I was sure she wouldn't mind.
Three hours later.
I have a sister.
Tears welled up inside the pit of my stomach, the realization of a childhood friend lost through time. Countless wishes wasted on stars, for someone who'd always been.
Two pages later I had a brother.
One book later I had another sister.
I remember feeling so out of place growing up, just different. We moved a lot, always surrounded by beauty. Sandy beaches in La Joia, a picturesque view in Arizona, Oregon Rain, Alaskan snow. These places built me. She was a wild woman seeking out all that this world had to offer, and I was along for the ride.
It was my third school in two years, I ran home crying. They didn't get me. Why were we so different? I was angry. I felt alone. In essence the pity partying started young. She held my face, ran her fingers through my long brown hair, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Sugar as long as I'm alive, you'll never be alone. Hang in there, mama never steers you wrong."
So why would she lie?
She was protecting me, in the only way she knew how. Running. I don't think she'd see it that way, but it fits.
In fairness she's not the type to victimize herself, she doesn't want anyone's pity, and she values self respect in a way most could only dream. With that in mind I reasoned that she kept me apart from my siblings out of respect for their mothers, and fear from my father. He wasn't a bad man, but he had his demons. Some things you can't hide from forever, and unfortunately his caught up with him.
Lester Donald Anniskett. He died on September 23rd,1987. He was twenty-nine years old. Car accident. Not before he made our little sister Grace, her mother Susan was still pregnant. Lanie was nine, I was a year and a half, our brother Troy was almost three. These ages are relevant. All of us would forever feel the emptiness of a father. We'd stumble through this life trying to figure out how relationships worked and identify with the roles society has chosen for us. Needless to say we're probably the best looking bunch of crazy hot messes you'll ever meet. We are connected in the most beautiful way, raised apart always yearning to belong, to relate, to obtain the special bond denied to us by kids on the playground. Likeness. Similar traits. Anger problems. Food weaknesses. Depth.
There's more but I'm not certain I can write that yet. She's out there. Jenny, we're connected in a different way. I will find her.
Who I am and where I come from relies heavily on the pearls of wisdom my parents left behind, whether they meant to or not.
The rest is up to me.
