Beginning. We were a flourish. A family who flourished. Mostly. Until the great becoming. That was my part. Everything else was not a mess. Not until a few years later. But by then things had cracked opened. For us. We were a flourishing family. Everyone except for me. I was so consumed by the fact that the veneer was about to lift. Parents have so many expectations. And siblings too, but not nearly as much. The veneer was about to lift one way or another. Even if I weasn't around to witness it. Especially if I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Or how I planned to arrive there. Or not arrive. There would have been no arrival. Only a passing. And the thin veil which covered us for so many years was not going be a bridal veil. That would come much, much later. I could tell that story but I try not dwell on current events. Not knowing their significance. That particular story is simply not allowed to be told yet.

As a family, we have always reserved the right to withhold information from outsiders. From each other. My father began many sentences, "I haven't told your mother yet---" but he certainly meant well. It was for protection. It was to reduce anxiety. He would be eating peanuts from a porcelain bowl. He chewed awkwardly, a result of dental work from years back. He had formed habits during that time, that he should be careful about the manner in which he ate certain foods. Peanuts were at the top of the list. As he chewed, carefully, he would begin to divulge the top secret information, classified until further notice. Usually, it entailed a business trip, upcoming. He withheld the information in order to be sensitive to my mother's fear of being alone. In an empty house. With large bay windows. Which overlooked a large pond where alligators could live. With only the knowledge of a floor plan. The garage door couldn't open fast enough. With a fear that crept when she watched suspenseful movies, television. Her television nightmares. Her striking my father in her sleep. Her dangerous dreams. So he told her nothing until it was too late. The flights were booked. The itineraries printed. They were in bold, like decrees. She would make clucking noises, she would pull back her lower lip. If that's how it had to be, what further could she protest. So he ate his peanuts. He watched sports. Espn. Mad Money on MSNBC, the thick-headed bald men with the power ties and New York facial tics. The swagger of men who loved to talk about the power of stocks, the movement of the ticker. The Kabbalah of monetary destiny.