A Common Pornography: A Memoir

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The next day, we went to the cemetery and found Dad’s gravestone. I was surprised to see that Mom’s name was on it too. I wondered if they had arranged that a long time ago. Even though they were never affectionate with each other when I was growing up and in the twenty years since I left the Tri-Cities, I guess they formed some kind of bond, or a truce that would keep them together forever. Maybe it was formed out of a mutual stubbornness, or perhaps they were used to each other, even though terrible things had happened between them. Unforgivable things. But maybe the unforgivable things were forgivable after all, for the sake of not being alone.

There were some plastic flowers at his grave. I didn’t bring anything to leave. I reached down and felt the raised letters of my last name. “See you later, Dad,” I said.

That night, while driving the four hours back to Portland, I realized that I probably wouldn’t be coming back to Kennewick again. At least not to see any family. I will have nowhere to stay after Mom sells her place. Mark will surely stay in town after he finds a place for himself, but I doubt anyone will hear from him.

Sometimes I think about growing up in Kennewick and how normal and good it was. How I was glad that I didn’t grow up in a smaller town or a bigger city. I think about my own son, growing up in Portland, and I know that his childhood, his youth, is very different. I wonder if he’ll move on in a few short years and feel nostalgic later. If he’ll always think of Portland as home and remember me as a good father. Maybe, right now, he thinks everything in his life is normal the way I thought my life and family was normal.

I realize that nothing is really normal. All it takes to alter normalcy is a death or a birth. Or just some misguided fear, love, or loneliness that never goes away.