Blow away, cruel wind

Familial shit storms, apparently, are indiscriminate. Although it’s been awhile, over a decade, so I suppose we’re past due.

I bought a 40 after work today. While I cooked my pasta I tipped some out in the sink for my little buddy Higgins. He was a good old boy.

This afternoon my dad put him in a box and carried him away to the pound while my brother watched, horrified, from behind a cracked door. When we were bitty kids, my dad brought home the same ball of fur, only then he could fit in your palm. Poor bugger was found stranded in a mid-January snow storm.

Define irony.

I suppose there comes a time for everyone when you really and truly see your parents as people. Mortal beings that hurt, screw up, and learn lessons. I’m not sure today was the day I really and truly needed to see this, but as usual nobody asked me.

As a child, you don’t know what to say when you hear unhappiness at the end of the telephone line. As a child, you don’t know how to respond when your mother says she doesn’t feel like herself anymore.

But as an adult, you know what emptiness feels like. Frustration and resentment. And you realize quickly that you are no longer a child in this conversation; you are an adult.

So you say what you’d say to your dearest friend: “You should talk about it” and, “I just want you to be happy.”

You’re an adult and you’ve learned not to place blame or to take sides. You take it for what it is and that’s all.

I’ve been a weeping, oozing shell of myself all day. I want to be around for my brother. I want to be the glue that holds it all together. I am not. I am here. 900 miles away and waiting. For the other shoe to drop.

It’s standard. It’s textbook, really.

[Jam of the Day]: Hide and Seek, Imogen Heap

[Photo]: by Pien via The Visual Dictionary
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