After years of banging unmoored pieces of wood back into their proper holes, the bench, a beloved place of haven, surrendered. Armrests snapped off. Legs wobbled dangerously. Sitting became a risk.
There was no tradition of home repairs growing up on Grand Street. A visitor remarked once that if there was something not working or in the way, we'd step around it or just avoid that spot altogether. In fact, unlike most of America, going to a therapist was within the realm of possibilities. Fixing a piece of furniture was not.
The healing from one's childhood reveals itself in unique ways. Some take up a new language or a new lover or a new country. I took up liquid nails.
