The memory of smoke

The memory of smoke

Monday, September 9, 2013

Safe in a home, with love and cats.

What is it about my father? He wasn't a father, only a bully. Mother full of judgement and self justification. My older brother, hectoring and neglectful, with daughters and dogs. Younger brother, a believer, full of platitudes and fluff. Me, well the rage still burns me, a fire demon seared into my neurons.

Both nieces of older brother carry the scars, multiple marriages, failed, drugs, jail.

A roof over one's head, food on the table, clothes on the back, a good foundation. But no one would live in a house with only a foundation. Add a facade, and you have a film set, not a life, not a home, not a family. It's not enough to be grateful for. Like giving someone one shoe. An empty eggshell. A bucket without a bottom.

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