Notes from my Black
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The infinite 7 inch conversation
I stood there listening. I mean I really tried to listen. She read a few articles to me… which isn’t easy. She doesn’t pick east articles, and her self proclaimed disclaimers are hard to navigate too. The crux of the issues lay with me, squarely on my shoulders and at my own feet.
I was raised to be sick by myself, to play by myself, to live solely, and to have little understanding of what it means to be close to someone. After all, when I had needs, my needs were questioned. When I had hopes, I was told to be seen and not heard. When I had emotions, my intelligence was questioned. So no, in my 50’s, I’m a wreck of a human because I’m not able to understand these things. I keep neglecting my relationship and not knowing how or why it’s happening. I try to engage, but it comes off as a one off, or disingenuous.
So “we” talked. I stood there, watching the floor and watching the shadow lines from the window slowly cross the floor. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t seem to participate in a meaningful way. I didn’t trust myself to actually say something intelligent… so I stood there not knowing what to do. I shut down, again.
When our son finally got irritated and started interjecting himself in the ways he knows how, she left. She didn’t discuss it and she didn’t waver. This time I did not help her. Norm I’d go close the garage… I chose to not to this time.
So she was gone and I was still standing in the kitchen, my head slumped and my feet, ice cold. The shadow had traversed a full 7 inches across the floor. The wood is staggered 8 inches, and it was now one inch from the next row. The dumb things I DO remember… like the stagger of the flooring I laid a few years ago. I had hopes that all that work would make for a happier home. Now I see it was a band aid on a problem. I could have save a lot of time and money if I just didn’t do any of it.