Sitting On The Couch Holding Hands | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Sitting On The Couch Holding Hands | Previous Challenge Entry
By Stacy Jamison
05/28/08
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There is an old photograph in my treasure box that speaks volumes about the relationship between me and my cousin Kitty. In the photograph, she is approximately a year and a half; I am just a few months old. We are holding hands, like friends that have known each other for years. Propped up by pillows, we are both sitting up, posing for our picture together.

Now, much older with adult children; there are many pictures of the two of us, standing next to each other, with our arms around each other. Each picture brings me back to the first one. The day it seemed we were grafted together. Sitting on an old couch in the mid sixties and holding each other’s hand. Before we were able to understand what a comfort hand holding could become to one another.

My wedding, she was the bridesmaid. My divorce, she called me continually. My sister’s untimely death, Kitty was right by my side. Our grandparents passed away, we sat, cried and consoled each other. Her mother’s death; I just couldn’t wait to get to her. There was no way I would not be by her side.

During elementary school, our summer vacations, spring breaks, Christmas breaks were usually spent together. If we didn’t go to Kitty’s house, she came to us. And it was always an event when she arrived and always tears when it was time to say good-bye.

During one visit, my brother, I, and my cousin Kitty decided we would get into something in the cabinet; looked like marijuana. We had found this jar in the spice cupboard and decided we’d give it a try and smoke it. We didn't have enough sense to know about rolling papers, so we just used plain notebook paper and rolled us a joint. Around age ten or eleven, mind you; not talented with rolling or smoking anything.

My brother and I had a little club house in the garage and, for some reason, we thought it would be a secret place to fire up a doobie. We didn't have enough sense to realize we should have ventilation. The garage door was closed, so when my dad opened the door it must have looked like a smoke bomb had exploded or a scene from a Cheech and Chong movie. He opened the door to our little club house and smoke billowed out of the tiny house like a three alarm fire! Dad commenced to beating the devil out of each of us and banishing us to our rooms. Kitty, without a room, was banished to the family room couch. We all cried ourselves to sleep.

Some years later, as adults, we laughed about the multitudes of spankings we’ve endured. One story, of course, was being caught smoking pot. As we recalled the event, my mother realized we had not been smoking pot at all. The jar we described was dried lemon balm tea someone grew and gave to her from their garden. It was assumed all the years we actually smoked pot. Mom admitted she and dad couldn’t understand where we got marijuana from. Until the day we laughed about where we found it, Mom said she couldn't understand what happened to all the tea. She assumed someone had drunk it all and dismissed it as one of the many things turn up missing when you have children in the house… that’s funny! It’s been more than thirty years since that spanking, but we should tell my dad!

Recently, Kitty came to visit. She lives on the West coast, and I am on the East. So we don’t get to visit much anymore, but we call each other weekly. This last visit was special. Through tumultuous times, we’ve visited and held each other’s hand, but this time we just spent time having fun and relaxing together. The week went by too quickly. We had a great time, shopping, cooking, and mostly talking. It was as if we were kids all over again. Staying up late, giggling about what happened during the day…or even years ago.

The night before she left to go home, we sat on the couch together; silent. We both felt sad to leave each other again. I couldn’t help myself…I had to grab her hand. And there we sat, for a few moments, sitting on the couch and holding hands. The forty three years of accumulated love for her is overwhelming. There will forever, be a photograph in my mind.

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