posted May 09, 2016 07:20 AM
Yes, it did. And yes, it died with him. I will never have the whole truth told to me. It was a dirty secret buried. But why? Why the preaching of womanly power, and to let that happen? It died, it with him. But lived through me. Does that part truly sink into the muds of time? It isn't fair. I've forgotten the smells, and the sights. It was because of her, the blond-haired one, who taunted the red-haired one. The red-haired one was ashamed, and the blond haired knew. But out of malice for the fiery one, never came.
She was the one who said it, before anyone.
I called her, the one with the Gaelic name, we hadn't spoken in months. I demanded the truth. Her answer "I don't know anything, maybe you should speak to your therapist" But I knew she did, her voice gave it away. Her and I were the most alike. But we hated each other. We were both blond-haired and chubby, we were both the favorite. The Red-haired and the black-haired never. Her rage and her envy. I was the first Grandchild. And I looked like her. Inside she envied me. Though she grew to dislike men the most out of all of us. It wasn't fair. She was one of those punks, that I aspired to be. But she ruined it for me. She ruined everything as she always does. She ended my parents. She tattooed the Virgin Mary on her arm, with an 8-ball on her head. She did it shortly after I was born. Just to hurt that man I miss every day, my father.
And though, no matter I tried, no one would reveal the truth. I called my Grandmother, she had no idea. And I am inclined to believe that.
Mother rushed into the other room to call the black-haired one who simply told us to separate rooms. A serious matter, and that is how it was taken?
Why protect him? Simply for her?
His grisly demise I now revel in. He moaned as he died. I heard it, in the bath. The bath where he drowned my soul.
And I cried. Not for the elder man I loved, but for the one they had blinded me to, made me to love. The Great man. Never, no, he hurt us, hurt us all.
His lungs took in no air. They scarred and cracked like clay. The Dust I wish to throw. I called to him as a spirt guide once. I saw him look at me. And then I saw my cat. My little Rascal. Rascal had protected me. Rascal begged me to look to him as my spirit guide. And so I did. And when I looked back, I saw a filthy man in an aura of grey-blue. He looked so sad and shameful. But pity held I never. He did not face me, and was clad only in boxers. His head was down turned, and he sat alone, forsaken. I cannot forgive him. I cannot forgive the Gaelic named Blond-haired one. I'm glad for how his lungs hardened, froze.
For my lungs were forced the water.
And I'm happy, happy he's dead. But through all of his sins. He left me a blessing. A land rich with life. Life that grows now, life that gives from his sickness.
And so should I thank him? Thank him for the gift? Or should I hate him? Hate him for the stolen innocents?
He, my predator, but too, he, my blessing.
This is how I find to blend hate and love.
Through my Grandfather.
Lindaland
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posted May 09, 2016 07:20 AM
