Daughterhood

I’m walking along a corridor, one I’ve paced a hundred times before in bouts of broody contemplation, when a door catches my eye. I hadn’t realized how deep in thought I really was until I had to unfurrow my brows, only to furrow them again at the unexpected sight. The door isn’t covered in dust or cobwebs, but I can tell it hasn’t been opened before. A visceral game of internal tug-of-war commences; I know I need to open it but something in me is adamant about protecting me from what lies beyond. Still, I know I need to open it.

I reach out and grip the cold brass knob and turn. It opens the way you would expect a door that was installed and never touched again would; taking an extra, but gentle, nudge to push it open to which it responds with a loud groan and sigh. I step into the room which is filled with a soft, nostalgic glow. In its buttery haze, a lone table in the center of the space is illuminated. I walk cautiously over to it and pick up the first item I see, a deck of index cards. The top one reads, “Mom’s Famous ______”. It’s blank. I flip to the next one, it’s blank too. I gather they are recipe cards, only, without the recipes. I set them down and move to the next thing that catches my eye. A photo frame with the words “Daddy’s Little Girl” engraved across the bottom lay baron with a similar “#1 Mom” frame beside it. There are no happy faces smiling at me, all I see is the reflection of my own sad eyes staring back at me through the glare of the glass.

Boxes are stacked in the corner of the room, one reads, “MEMORIES”. I don’t need to open it to tell that it too, is empty. Before I can articulate to myself what exactly it is that I have stumbled upon in this curious room, an acoustic-sounding song begins to play from a record player I hadn’t noticed before. Just as the music starts, two shadowy figures begin to dance across the wall. A pang in my heart resounds as I notice the shorter figure standing on the toes of the taller one. It was at that moment I realized I was witnessing a father-daughter dance, and that the room I was standing in was a sort of holding room, or graveyard of everything daughterhood should have given me, but that generational trauma, addiction, and two people who just couldn’t care enough took from me.

The music fades and I am again alone in the room, the once-sunny glow feeling less nostalgic and more melancholy. The lump in my throat grows and the tears well up in my eyes. I want so badly to run out of this room and pretend I never noticed it at all, it’s too painful. I put the needle back to the beginning of the record, and let the song play again. Just once more and then I will leave. I will go back to walking past this door, never feeling curious enough again to discover what exists in this space, what could have been.