Ponderous, as large as stones.
Fills your hearth, your heart, your homes.
Beaten earth, and pattered hail.
Northern wind, bring winter’s mail.
Winding through the wirey roads.
Hollowed, loose, with crimson loads.
Embers whisper, fighting chill.
Darkness growing, lurking still.
E’er the meat falls from the bone.
stripped and lifeless, steel not hone.
Lilting gently, towards slumber
Fire crackles, without lumber.
E’er the meat falls from the bone
Gripped too strong, always on loan.
I’ve talked before about coming out to my mother. it was a bad experience. You can read about it here if you’d like.
Coming out to my mother Part 1
There’s two parts, enjoy if you wish. What I’m going to talk about today is the interesting way in which we perceive our own histories.
Growing up I didn’t have a lot to rely on, rose tinted glasses are a very ingrained tradition in my family. So if I wanted to keep a firm grasp on reality, I had to stay keenly aware of my memories. As I couldn’t rely on those around me to remember stories correctly.
So I was rather amazed when I spoke to my mother over Christmas and told her that I had thrown out an ornament my brother got my wife and I for Christmas the year we were married. Frankly, I didn’t think a Mr & Mrs ornament had any place on my tree.
(We’d considered giving it away but the only other wedding we attended that year had also been a gay wedding. It was a nice ornament, just not appropriate for us.)
My mum, in her infinite wisdom told me that she had bought the ornament. “Why?” I asked, “you knew I was trans.” She didn’t remember when I’d told her. The bitter tears of rage had evaporated from her memory. I was married two years ago, I came out to my mother five years ago. She’d managed to lose the timing of an event, and likely the negative feelings to a more convenient place and time of her choosing.
Which is frankly. the worst example of that behavior I’ve had to endure. We all lose track of events at times, no one remembers everything that happens to them. But to forget when I came out to you, especially considering how poorly she took it, and how much that still hurts me today, was another painful stab in my side.
I don’t wish I could forget like she did. Because there’s power in remembrance. I just wish my mother, and my family had the strength to remember along side me.