When My Sweater Shows a Strand

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December 15, 2016. Just like any other day, I woke up to the daunting roar of my parents just a few doors over. More than a roar, I heard them howl. More than a howl, I heard them bellow. More than a bellow, I heard them scream.

Growing up, I quickly became accustomed to my parent's inherent differences. I understood that aggression and conflict were synonymous with love and dedication. I believed that my parent’s actions were not indicative of their emotions. Every time one of them threw an obscenity at the other; Every time one of them threw a china plate at the other; Every time one of them threw the door shut on the other. It was all just a big show of affection and admiration. You see, I was a naive boy, finding ways to shed happiness onto my unhappy childhood. Though, on December 15, 2016, I discovered that happiness and hostility are not one and the same. 

The screams that accompanied my morning quickly drew me to their origin. I slowly crept to the master bedroom, knowing very well that what I saw would ruin my special day. On the morning of my birthday, I saw for the first time, tears running down my father's face. The one man who never felt much of anything was shedding salt large enough to dampen the sweater below his neck. I watched him suffer, as my mother continued to scream, and felt his pain like it was my own. 

Much the next few hours were a blur. I sat in a family room without a family, wondering how happy my childhood really was. I tried endlessly to avoid all the signs and continue to see their actions as affection. I recalled back to every dinner I've had with the families of my friends. I tried to find one instance where their nights ended in commotion too. I did so not to find pleasure in other's anguish, but to find normalcy in a situation that was anything but normal. 

Just as I began to give up, my father approached me, the tears wiped clean off his face. Instantly, I noticed that the sweater he wore prior had been replaced. I wondered where it had gone only long enough to find it rolled in his back pocket. "Yes, father?" I inquired, with the slightest tone of concern. 

"Happy birthday." My father pulled the knitted garment of yarn from his pocket, still dripping with his salt. Though I noticed its flaws, like the strand of yarn sticking out of its right shoulder, I was ecstatic that my father even remembered. "Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it. And sorry that it's wet. I guess the dryer isn't working."

Days passed from my birthday. Weeks and months soon followed. My home continued to descend into the abyss, but I was fine. I was fine. I was fine. That sweater my father had given me months ago was keeping me sane, allotting me a memory I continue to hold so dear. Every time I would hear a roar or a howl or a bellow or a scream, I would pull ever so slightly on that strand of yarn. I would grasp it lightly, and with a tug, I would be transported back to my favorite memory; my father standing over me with a damp sweater in his hand. “Happy birthday.” 

3 1/2 Years Later

Long gone are the days of thrown obscenities, thrown china plates, and thrown doors. On January 15, 2018, my parents stood at the mercy of the common law. I watched from the back of a room where marriage finds its final conflict. I watched, while undoing the strand one final time, as my family unraveled into a clump of yarn. I watched, as the last day my father’s sweater was held together, was also the last day my family was held together.

I continue to look at that part of my life with regret. In movies and television, when characters endure hardships, they come out of the experience with lessons learned. They describe how they would not trade their experiences for anything. Though, I would trade my experience for everything. I look back at my time, when my father’s sweater was still whole, and only remember the roars and howls and bellows and screams. But even then, every time I pull that long strand of yarn hanging from atop my bed, I am transported back to my favorite memory; my father standing over me with a damp sweater in his hand. “Happy birthday.”