hendelar

sometimes you just gotta' row

get over it, in time

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It used to be impossible for me to speak with her. Sure the difficulty was illogical because, after all, it was only conversation with a definite and controllable end point. She’s a thousand miles and a million realities away and, there is a dose of self-gratification found in fulfilling a son’s obligatory, Mother’s Day telephone call. So then, what’s the deal?

Blame, for my mistakes and misgivings? All those missed, messed relationships? My lack of fulfillment? My decision to sell everything I owned, leave a well-paying, good-loving lifestyle in the big city to fumble into a solitary life as a writer, now a near-destitute writer?

Sure, I could call that one except it would be neither fair nor effective.

They, the parental units, bear some responsibility for who we are though ownership of who we’ve become can only belong to ourselves. I left home in the early spring of life and now, in late-summer-early autumn, have been away from home for nearly three times as long as I lived there. Yes, it was the early years, but that was a looong time ago. What else is there?

Still, my psyche echoes with the taunts and hollers of the funny little ghosts of childhood whenever I get close to her.

During today’s phone call we were talking about someone’s post-operative radiation treatment and she elected to claim the subject’s important and unfortunate focus for herself, “…i wouldn’t take radiation treatment because I read…”. Like a child, I thought. Like a deprived or over-indulged child. Then I realized, probably not so overindulged.

She left a psychotically dysfunctional home as a teen. Returned to rescue an older sister from the same home. Left school, had a child, married, suffered physical and emotional abuse and, scarring, separated from her kids, reunited with some of them, got screwed over in divorce, survived cancer, remarried, widowed within a year, struggled, and survived slings and arrows from people living in glass houses with large cracks. Some of those tossers share genes with her.

Survivor. Caring survivor who bore so much of an unfathomable burden alone. Now at age seventy-nine she’s outlasted half of her siblings and, even through the scars, outshines them all. She still reaches out with help and compassion, however and with whatever she has, to anyone with a need.

Inevitably one of these phone calls will become the final one. The realization of this will be a cue for the ghosts to vacate so the new tenants, the wish-I’d family and its kids, Regret and Sorry, can move in.

A timely eviction action is in order. Now. God bless her.

glh

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Written by glh

May 8, 2011 at 14:30

Posted in Childhood, Letting Go, noticing

Tagged with ,

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