Words with Dad

You call me up and Don your best “Uncle Bruce” voice.

Angry, accusing. Authoritative.

I, not looking for a fight, listen as you steadily rile up the mountain, building justification to explosion.

“IF SOMEONE SAID MY DAD’S A LIAR I’D TELL THEM TO FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING BITCH.”

I am starting to shake.  This was your little question.

“DO YOU BELIEVE I’M A LIAR.”

I am not looking for a fight.  …I’m not interested in being YOUR doormat, either.

Your words were deprecating, cutting, you bully and diminish.  What kind of crazy is this, that you think after all you’ve said, I’d defend your honor?

The best defense is the truth.

“You’ve made it clear what you think of me and you honestly don’t respect me.  So why does my opinion of you even matter?”

PAUSE.

…and like that, nuclear meltdown averted, the conversation dwindles into another, less angry realm, onto relatedly different topics, as I, chuckle for days, decimated by how funny the truth can be.

I wish I’d never taken your call.

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A Meal with My Dead Family

A Meal with My Dead Family

33 years reflecting upon 8.

Eating popcorn above the sink.  Nothing special.

Memories glide by my eyes.  I’m taken.

Quiet.  Pine and fresh, blueberry muffins and bacon, and

…dust.

The smell of dingy old plaid curtains, beloved for what they represent.

Dappled light trickling through and outside

…outside.

Jays with mohawks, chipmunks, no fences between here and the neighbors,

hunkpapa.

New stones to collect and we are going to the lake.

Buoyed and tepid, thinking of you then,

millions and million of years ago.

Reaching for a warm blueberry muffin, pealing the top off,

locking eyes around the tiny, sun filled breakfast nook in a cabin,

millions and millions of miles away,

I smile at you all, feasting on bacon and vacation,

vivid as yesterday, pungent like a nosebleed from the dry altitude,

we were happy, healthy, and whole, weren’t we?

….weren’t we?