In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
I’m being a good girl, Dad Staying out of sight Keeping my needs to a minimum Promise I don’t cry, Dad.
I’m being a good wife, Dad Cooking all his favourites Letting him walk ahead Never uttering a peep, Dad
I’m a perfect background wife, Dad Just like you taught me; just like Mom Only no one has to hit me to make me behave, Dad; I learned it good from you.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson, this poem edited. Image my own)
(Hi all. This post was pre-scheduled. I have turned off comments. We are currently coming to terms with the loss of a close family member. Will visit when I can, but likely be off for a bit.)
Ask me how I’m doing and I’ll say “fine”, not because I’m actually fine, but because “fine” is the only socially acceptable response.
If I said that I have been lying here, for three hours now, willing my body to move, that would elicit unsolicited advice and tarnish my “fine”.
I’d berate myself for breaking my promise not to moan, knowing that complaining provokes a compulsive need to fix, which just infuriates me
Because my concept of trying – which is defined by getting dressed each day – does not match trying every new therapy, drug, exercise offered by well-meaning but clueless
others, who may experience fatigue at times, but have no understanding of what is is to be exhausted after something as simple as bathing, let alone debating what I haven’t tried.
So, ask me how I’m feeling, and I’ll say “fine” and we move on to the weather, or the latest movie must-see, and I can bask in the warmth of the contact
carry the conversation into the void of the rest of my day, smile to think that I still have friends who accept my “fine” even though they know I anything but…
(Re-de-fine-d first appeared here February, 2016. Edited here. Image my own)