I’ve huddled myself onto the bench in the kitchen to brood after having been snapped at. It wasn’t his fault though, he was only anxious about the weather alert in our area and how his parents will fare through it all. I envy the relationship he has with them, even though I cannot quite understand it. I’ve never been close to my family and I can’t say that it ever particularly bothered me, seeing how they never really belonged to me. Some ties are only as strong as the love that binds and them together and if there is no love, what’s left? I’m good at playing pretend though- pretend friend, pretend sister, pretend daughter, pretend wife. The only real things I have are my words and my love for my children seeing how I oftentimes find myself questioning love of any other type. I don’t think thirty-five years worth of experience in the subject is enough to call myself an expert. More likely, I’ve become a critic. Accidentally, of course. I’m stationed on this bench with the tears burning in my eyes, telling myself that it’s because while I may not be the best housewife, once I get started, I’m far from imperfect. You couldn’t tell this right now of course, what with the mess that’s been created between the girls and the puppy and I’m so exhausted. I feel the depression pulsating around me, just out of reach, threatening to bubble over and so I try to breathe and write. I’ve found myself here accidentally, of course, and so I’m trying to make the best of it until it’s time to move on.
Write On 