The Longest Mile.

I just got up from my bed, with my pillow, planning on having a good cry on the couch. My snuffly nose diverted me to the bathroom, and then to our study. I took out the pile of photos of my mother and shuffled through them. Photos of her as a girl, as a teenager with a shift dress, a cigarette, and a cocktail; as a fearlessly adventuring adult; and as new grandmother holding her newborn grandson in her arms. It was these last ones that really got me weeping - the unbridled joy on her face would have made you cry too.

And I just wept. For losing her, my grandfather, and my daughter; for being abandoned by my father; for being raised by a hurtful and damaging stepfather; for my marriage; for feeling as though I lost myself when my mother died and haven't found myself yet; and for all that I yearn for and will never have.

Finally, I paused. Here was a photo I had forgotten. In it, I am almost seven. I sit on my uncle's lap. We are looking at the camera very steadily. It is a nice portrait, especially since I have two long stalks of some plant sticking out each side of my mouth. Then I remembered. There are people in my life who still know me, who have always known me: as a funny little girl; an awkward teenager; a bride and a mother. Friends who trick-or-treated with me; cousins who ate sandwiches at the table with me as my grandmother complained about our sandy feet; women who cried with me at the bedside of my dying mother.

I may not know myself, nor may they know how exactly to respond to all that I face, but they know me. They are my family. They aren't in the race with me, but they're on the sidelines throwing cups of water and bananas and orange slices, holding the signs with my name on it, yelling silly stupid hilarious things, and I know that when I get to the finish line of this marathon struggle, they will wrap me in a shiny blanket, take me home, and put me to bed.