Day #9 Writing Through Covid-19: Gray Day

It's a gray day here on Eagle Avenue, my parents' seventh day living under my wing.

This morning I brought my mother an English muffin on a pretty blue-flowered napkin.

"I used to do what you're doing," she said.

"You mean making decisions about what to eat?"

"It's your turn now," she said simply.

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I want to please them.

I want to make them happy.

I want them to like me.

I was not an easy child to raise, and perhaps as a result, I have not been close to my parents in my adult life. After my adolescent years spent disobeying and disappointing them at every turn, my parents (justifiably) didn't like me much. Oh, of course they loved me, as parents do. But our relationship was forged in hateful fire, and by the time I became less hateful, I was busy with my own family, and they had several of my other siblings needing their attention.

So one week into this Covid adventure of housing these two, I'm questioning my motives.

Am I trying to be a hero?
Am I trying to ask forgiveness?
Am I, at age 60, still trying to win their approval?

Or maybe I'm just helping because I'm not such a terrible person after all. That would be nice.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison




Gray Day on Eagle Avenue