Mo’orea, French Polynesia
Today
I’d originally planned to come here on the twentieth anniversary of your death. It seemed like a nice round number. But it took me that long to just to come to grips with what happened. Today, kids think nothing of visiting a psychologist. It’s almost become a badge of honor. “My therapist said ...”
My oldest granddaughter is in that line of work. I’m proud of her for that, and I picture her days spent sitting on a chair with a notebook in hand as a patient reclines on a leather chaise and talks. Or maybe that’s just how it’s done in the movies. I’ve never asked.
I’ll bet she doesn’t know that back in our day it was almost a scandalous word. That something must be wrong with you if you needed to ask for help. That it could—hush, hush—go on your permanent record. We didn’t have phrases like post-traumatic stress disorder to make sense of the traumatic things that we witnessed.
We just covered up our unhealed wounds and lived life as people fraught with invisible scars.
Even when America’s boys came home from Vietnam—bitter, bewildered, battered—we expected them to buck up and carry on as if they hadn’t witnessed and done the most appalling things.
So, yes, it took me all of those twenty years to feel like I could do this. Like I was ready to put you to rest.
But I can’t deny the guttural relief that swept over me when a cyclone named Veena struck the islands with her ninety-five-mile-per-hour wrath, destroying the roads and leaving tens of thousands of Tahitians homeless. Of course, my heart broke for those poor people. Especially since I could still picture so vividly their generous smiles and happy ways. The images on the news showed majestic palm trees that were felled like matchsticks, and I imagined all the feral roosters and chickens and dogs that roam the dirt streets being trapped beneath their fronds.
Flights were canceled—including mine—adding additional devastation to a country where no one could visit and bring their tourism dollars.
Veena saved me from having to face this moment, though.
After that, there were too many children, too many bills, too many excuses, and I did not return as I’d promised.
I hope, now, you can be at peace. That your soul has not wandered restlessly all this time because I failed to bring you back to these aqua-blue waters you so loved. But I’m here at last.