Roots

Quarter of midnight. Pandemonium was built in a day, but not my house in real time. The invention of cannon required but a few seconds, but writing this post will take me longer. The war in heaven is over, but not in my soul. Yet what is it with me? Why the rebellion against my pious sister? Obedience is boring— but then I start to sound like my brother. Peace with Polly might be okay if she gives up her bigotry. The cross must bend or lie on its side if Christianity is to continue on. My sister is the religious figurehead of the family and will not give up her Lord. If God is not for real, then her belief makes it so. In my head I hear an old big band version of “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” It is beautiful. I recall very vaguely my grandmother paying us a visit to Salem from Eugene. It would be 1970. She came on the Greyhound. She even bought me a toy bus and gave it to me. I remember vomiting with anxiety before she came. I made a stain on the blue rug. Mom cleaned it up. I was so different from the rest of the family, or so it seems. Grandma Mimi favored me in special ways. Shortly before she passed away, she let me sit on her lap. Mom was concerned about her heart, but Mimi insisted. She was always the stoic. I don’t remember what she said… Somewhere along the way I lost touch with my roots. What if God really does pervade the members of my family? Where did I go wrong? At what point did I stray into the egoism of the intellect? I wonder if the education system is really less important than family. I could’ve been misguided by educators. Dunno. I was told that I was talented and had a bright future. But who was it for? If all for myself, then wasn’t that hollow and meaningless? I wish I knew…

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