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Just A Little Black Rain Cloud |
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"When it rains, it pours." So sayeth the ever-enigmatic "They," anonymous purveyor of all infallibly logical knowledge throughout the known universe. One must wonder how these observations, however sensical they may seem, came to be. What it a simple acknowledgement of the rain itself? which rarely if ever falls in the piddly amounts known as "light showers" (a la the weather channel)? Or was the generalization made, as so many assume it to be, as a metaphor for the amount of experiences one encounters in their lifetime? But I digress. I chose the saying on behalf of my mother, who had the good graces to cover her emotions with anonymous quotations. As we sat on the edge of my bed, discussing the fickle jester known as fate and its consistent mockery of our life and the lives of those around us, I had to agree with the tidbit of wisdom she let loose from her mind. "When it rains, honey, it pours." Yeah. It really does. She had gotten home from driving my stepfather to Glenbeigh, a rehabilitation community for recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, and those of these who were not yet recovering, and needed the extra push to start. Or, in my stepfather's case, to start again. He had been voluntarily incarcerated there for 5 months for alcoholism and a heroin addiction for 5 months, and after only 5 weeks of being home, he returned. I say this simply and without opinion or emotional stress because, while he filled the position of father figure in my mothers eyes, I saw him only as having the title. Thusly, and because he made no effort to earn the credentials of a true father, I am not deeply affected by his problem or how he chooses to resolve it, nor am I in need of pity. I am, however, very much affected by how these things are dealt with by my mother, who means very, very much to me. It is again on her behalf, in that case, that his return to the rehab center troubles me at all. I pity her, strong-willed as she is. After driving from Salem, OH, up to the center in Butler, PA, staying long enough to make my stepfather's arrangements, and driving back home, one would have to have a fork lodged in their eye to not see my mother was exhausted. Her stress, fatigue, and overall uncharacteristically emotional demeanor was unsettling, and I thought it best to leave her be. So I left with Jeffrey for a few hours, and when I came home, my mother had fallen asleep. But she seemed just as tired the next day as she had been after her return from Pennsylvania, and just as distressed. Still, she went to work, and my sister and I went to school. The day progressed in spite of us. She came from work at six, as I lay supine on my bed, trying to relax while Jeffrey and I chattered lethargically back and forth. My conversational effort was wan. Another persons stress can tax the psyche of the person who is most empathetic to their dilemma; I was exhausted from worrying about my mothers worries. But I am cold and heartless to those not close to me, and this may have been karma's counterattack to my usually aloof nature. So, as "they" say, there is no rest for the wicked. Ah, but there is apparently no rest for those who are not so wicked as well. Mommy dearest tapped her nails on my door, her own way of letting me know who it was that required access to the organized chaos of my room. She came bearing tidings of my dearly loved grandfather's hospitilization (for reasons I am not at liberty to discuss). I could not help that think fortune was perhaps pissed off at my family, and doing all in her power to make us pay for some offense of which I had no recollection. She sat with Jeffrey and I..."When it rains, honey," she said, "it pours." Oh, mom. You know you're right.....
Patchy · Wed Dec 21, 2005 @ 03:29pm · 1 Comments |
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