Okay, so funny story, and true, too:
As I was fishing a Kidney Crusher (otherwise known as Mountain
Dew) out of a cooler on the front porch at my grandpa's house, some guy that I
am faintly acquainted with spoke up.
"Where's your boss at?" I wasn't quite sure if the
question was directed at me, since I don't have a job, per se, and gave the who
me? response.
Smiling wickedly as I straightened and turned, "Um, my Mom's
dead. I don't have a boss."
There were a few moments in which, if it had been a little later
in the day, the crickets would have been chirping. The guy, we'll call him
Pete, didn't know what to say. My dad and the neighbor didn't offer a response,
either.
Pete tried again, "Well, where's your old man, then?"
I never really liked that term; I don't think it's a proper term
for endearment.
"He's at his friend's house, with his son. They're playing
guitar, I guess," I replied and made my exit, still chuckling to
myself.
I thought it was funny. My husband later told me that Pete was a
softy, and had been upset when my mother, and then her father, had passed.
Oops. My bad. Sometimes I don't really know that I'm twisting the
knife in the wound, there, Pete. Sometimes I don't even really understand that
there is a wound. I guess I just don't understand that more than just me and my
blood and our families were hurt by her demise.
But, sometimes, mostly in reflection, I just don't care that I've
shoved the knife deeper and twisted it, making the pain fresh all over
again.
Maybe I don't want you to be upset that my Mother is dead.
Maybe I don't want to think of you as having any claim to this
grief that is sucking us under. And by us I don't mean you. I mean me. I mean
my father, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and our children.
Sometimes I just wish that people like Pete would just not be
pained by the death of MY MOTHER. I guess that's selfish of me.
It’s just a minor thing, that one broken branch of our family
tree. On the outside you may see a whole shitload of other branches. But,
really, that one branch was crucial to the beautiful, safe shade that the tree
provides. Sometimes you want me to tell you that everything will be all right.
Well, I could say that, but I would be lying. So, instead, I
will just say: Everything will be all right, but nothing
will ever be the same again.
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