1. Prophase
Broken into two parts; early & late.
When I was thirteen my biggest fear was dying from the swine flu. It was the first global pandemic of the decade. I was terrified of something I could never see, never truly run from, and would eventually never be exposed to. Yet, I was hypnotized by the idea that this virus would follow me, would haunt me, like an apparition. My burgeoning anxiety would peak as the virus crept out from coughs to conduct its symphony of sneezes and sniffles.
On some nights, following dinner, our family would gather to watch the news before my parents would shoo my brother and I off to our rooms to finish homework. All four of us would squeeze onto our orange-peel-tinted leather couch and watch mobs of face-masked sickly be shuffled around hospitals like pigs prodded towards the slaughter house. My parents used to share the center while swapping my brother and I out to wing either side of them. But lately they decided it would be a treat to put one of us in the middle, in between them. Double the love maybe? H1N1
2. Metaphase
The spindle has captured all the chromosomes and lined them up at the middle of the cell, ready to divide.
The thought of what came after death used to thrust me down a spiral of panic attacks before I could identify them as such. I’d given up on God in the past year, although sometimes I’d attend Presbyterian services to get out of morning chores or for the donuts that would follow the two hours of singing and greasy hand holding. I wanted to believe in God, any deity really. The idea of eternal nothingness following this life would make my pubescent frame sweat, shake, and nauseate. I couldn’t (can’t) comprehend an eternity. I was desperate to fall into someone’s faith.
This was around the same time my father stopped attending Sunday services as well. He’d never been a man of faith; he’d drank and smoked nearly everyday since he began working as a truck driver in his early twenties. His church ran on wheels. His gods were diesel powered and took pleasure in smiting those who drove at the speed limit in the left lane on highways. Maybe he’d simply missed the exit labeled: “Husbandly duties”. Or maybe he saw my mom gassing it past him in the opposite direction with an unidentified passenger sitting shotgun.
3. Anaphase
The sister chromatids separate from each other and are pulled towards opposite ends of the cell.
Since my ability to articulate was formed I was told of a glowing eternity awaiting me. An all-star party of everyone and anyone who was worth a damn would be held in the clouds. In my mind Heaven looked like the largest small town in the world. Sprawling with no verticality, like a contemporary rendition of an Aztec metropolis. Mornings were met with birdsong, cats would wander through open windows and begin each morning with gentle headbutts. Wafts of lavender and honey would swirl by without catalysts. Adobe houses warmed by an ever-present sun, where all my friends and family would live on the same block. There are no roads for vehicles, anything you’d need would be available by foot, and chances are you’d make a new friend on the way. Everyday was paradise, peace. It would never end. It horrified me.
The first time I thought that my parents didn’t love each other came in early July of 2010. I’d just finished my first year of middle school and I loved making a fool of myself to entertain others. I had made a name for myself as a sub-par class clown. I was in the middle of a growth spurt that would extend my height an entire foot in two years and add on fifty pounds. Stretch marks littered my back and legs like tiger stripes. I was often told my acne resembled a mountain range; the Cascades running from my forehead all the way down to California. Everything awkward, everything in transition.
My brother and I were split-screening Halo 3 when we heard screams in the backyard. We both ran out to see what was happening, tripping over one another up the stairs from our basement to find our parents mid-yelling match. It was the first time either one of us had seen them truly argue, let alone shout inches from one another. We stared briefly, but the two of us knew we’d be better off not looking. Somehow then we knew nothing good could come from witnessing this breakdown. They’d done such a good time holding up the façade of eternity.
4. Telophase
The cell is nearly done dividing.
Weeks after the argument I desperately wanted to forget, my mother dragged my brother and I along on a trek to Sequim, Washington. We went nearly every summer. There was usually four of us. Usually. Before my parents were married, they would take weekend trips to Sequim. They’d share a cabin overlooking Sequim Bay, rent crab pots for the day, and spend the night feasting on their catch over slow jams and boozy dancing. They decided to get marry there. On a hill overlooking the bay, my brother was the ring bearer and I was still just a thought on the near horizon.
“From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,
in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,
till death do us part”
5. Cytokinesis
The final stage.
We sat on the same hill she was married on when she told us about the divorce. A life cycle, returning to the start.