A Moveable Past

Looking for trouble, I missed what mattered.

My triplet daughters share a first and best childhood friend who got married this past weekend. All three were present to watch her marry the love of her life. It was, they told me, beautiful.

With this childhood friend, their bond was neighborhood-forged. They went to the same schools, swam at the same scrappy summer pool club, and joined the same egregiously culturally-appropriative YMCA organization called Indian Princesses. I listened in on their games of make-believe and squabbles. Sometimes their friend did or said something mean. The triplets swiftly (or even immediately) forgave her. But I was their mom, and her behavior made me wary. I formed suspicions, maintained an eagle eye. The girls played while I looked everywhere but the place they safely and happily coexisted for trouble that never materialized.

It’s been decades. People change, I believe that wholeheartedly, but changing my perceptions about the past requires a different sort of unsticking. The protective mama bear narrative I dug into was tough to dislodge.

I can’t relive those years, but I can reshape them. Take away the shadow presence in the corner, the anxious ear to the wall, and what surfaces are backyard swing sets, piles of dress-up clothes, long summer afternoons, laughter. At the center of it all, four friends, as it turns out, for life.