Somewhere in the conversation, he asked if my mother meddled in my brother’s life. I felt poison and a small flash of anger rise telling him I don’t let her interfere in mine. Yah, I could feel that as it happened An instantaneous and small, hardened edge to my voice. It’s better tho. The venom just doesn’t leak as bad as it once did. That’s good. I don’t need it to survive anymore. He asked how it was relationship-wise when I was growing up. About affection between family members. Who I was close to.

I had little trouble talking about what we did. Yanno, stuff. Stuff I learned along the way. Stuff we did together. Stuff they showed me how to do. Make solar prints. His darkroom. The rose garden. Sewing. Needlework. How to finish furniture. There is more. Much more.

But still, I cannot recall anything like the physical affection he and his daughter lavishes between them. I can’t even remember sitting on either one of my parent’s laps. Or getting hugs from them. I don’t remember any affection between them either.
There must have been all that. Right?

Yah, I had a huge amount of trouble talking about the emotional part of those relationships. I found myself steering away at every opportunity. Shifting the conversation in small ways. I think he saw that.

I miss my Grandpa. His melodic voice. Calming. He never raised his voice. Never. He had a bad temper. He almost killed a man once. So he never ever let his temper use him. Ahhh….His lap. His hugs. And gardening with him. My first real memory. He taught me to garden. Taught me about plants. About species and cultivars. How to save seed form year to year. He jingled the change in his pocket all the time. It was “his” sound when he walked. I cried a bit. Damn, I miss that man. Always. Will. Miss *My* Grandpa.

He mentioned he has a memory gap during middle school. It’s bits and pieces. I realized when he said that, I do as well. From middle school to almost all of high school. From about 11-16. It’s not continuous. Not fluid. Broken.

My blank spot is really no surprise either. We block the unpleasant. The perceived traumas of the time. What we don’t want to, or don’t know how to deal with.

Years of physical abuse at the hands of my mother. Insidious. Escalating to a point of no return for her. She played her fear of Not Good Enough that she built on me. She built it especially for her use. Not mine. My “Not Good Enough” was / is a by product her perception of herself. Her inadequacies. She used fear…my fear of telling him. She insinuated he knew everything….what a horrible child I was and that she had to beat me senseless to behave. All in an attempt to hide what she was doing. So I wouldn’t talk about it to anyone. So I would accept what she was doing as her right. As right. Aside from being constantly “grounded”, I really don’t believe he….who is my father with a blood type that makes him not *like* me, mine but not mine……knew anything at all.

After all….Who *would* condone it if they knew?

I know now why it’s so easy to stay in my head too. It’s where I lived for much of that time. In books. I lived in books and in my head. It’s easy for me to go there. Easy to not be open or vulnerable. I can’t figure tho….what would happen if I didn’t? Have I ever not done this? Remain closed?

I lived in my flute and french horn during middle school. It was all designed as my protection. From screaming. From killing her. From killing myself.

It scared me to feel. Still does on some level. It’s my block in so many ways…

It touched a huge scar for me. Made it kinda sore. Not anyone’s fault. It’s just there. Still raised and red and still sore. So much so, I got out of bed after tossing some. Sat on the couch in the dark and thought about it all. Wanted to write it then and there. I didn’t tho. I thought about how I go to great lengths to hide the scar. Don’t know when I tumbled back into bed next to him needing warmth and safety. It wasn’t entirely safe with those ghosts.

But that’s ok. Massage the scar it will fade. Become less red. Less raised. Less sore.

Don’t. stop. talking.

The bold type is what I take away as I write this. Right now.
The rest is superfluous…a process of fleshing fat from meat and meat from the bone….