Keeping The Peace

Why is it
that I enjoy you the most
when it's just us
in a room?

At this point
in life
it's easier to keep silent
than to risk wars
and rumors of wars
by babbling out
everything I've ever thought
but never said.

Drama queen
Story embellisher
Mandela-effect memories

(I got a little thrill, when you used to say I scared you)

I can't stand that you loved Dad more than me
I can't stand that you didn't protest when he moved you across country away from me, and your granddaughter.

(You aren't the only one who's told me, I frighten them)

My heart hurts when I see your memory isn't what it used to be, because I know what's coming--becoming your mother like I did to your mother.

(I never regretted that at all. I took care of her the way I always wanted to be taken care of)

I resent Dad for always putting himself first.
There's no way I'll ever tell you, that I found my biological father, and that he's a really great guy.

(That missing half of me, that you would never tell me all of, is finally, suddenly, plugged back in)

I wish Dad (and you) didn't alienate your granddaughter--it was her wedding.
It was important.
It wasn't "just a dinner" because the ceremony was private.
All you had to do was buy plane tickets.
I had the rest planned and covered.
Yet spending $3000 to try and save your cat, who died anyway, was no problem for finances.

(that still pisses me off)

The two weeks when you came alone to visit me, was the best time, I ever had with you.
We talked
We made plans
Dad wasn't there to make it all about him.
We decided to get a house at the ocean, together someday.

(I finally saw who you really were, when there was no one there to impress, and I liked you that way)

I didn't have to be the adult all the time
I've been the adult, all my life.
I could keep blabbering on.
I'm not cleaning up after you, long distance, so you'd better move back to what little family is left, before you keep getting older and die.

(I'll be retirement-aged, in eight years--that scares me, more than I ever scared you)

My knees are starting to scream when I kneel down to weed the gardens, just like yours do.
I beat you--I've had more cortisone shots in my foot, than you.

Can we just have more time, or is dad gonna drain the rest of your life, with all of his own daily health problems ?

(that's all about him, too...)

I think you're a little sick of him too, after fifty years.

I hate thinking some of these thoughts.
I know you tried
I know did or think you did your best.
I'm far from perfect, myself.

(It's not wrong to want my mother to myself, once in a while).