Bowed Wood


That bottle is following me.  Not from room to room, but if it had eyes they would be something from a Edgar Allen Poe story.  There’s nothing special about the jar, just a simple mason variety that someone probably used to can jelly before it became the holder of my thoughts.  I didn’t just bottle them up, I placed them on a shelf where I could be reminded of their presence.

Emotions are hard.  Even the simple, pleasant ones have a resounding ability to spring back at times and with a force you can’t control.  And that word “Control” is important to this story.  All the running, yelling, crying isn’t going to be enough if at the end of the day those emotions are stifled until everyone pretends them don’t exist.  And trust me, the explosion that follows levels everything around it.

When I was young and taller than everyone around me it was important for keep my cool.  Every now and then someone would want to poke the bigger guy and prove themselves better.  Kid mentality, King of the Hill playground style!  Most times I walked away, it wasn’t worth the trouble.  Once in a great while I would poke back.

In trying to get everything in order before I shuffle off this mortal realm, the lawyers have said that there are a few things that need resolutions or they would cause issues for my family moving forward.  One of them is hard for me to allow to be cleaned up.  It requires me putting aside any good feelings I have about a person and knowing that they are going to be crushed in the process.

A secret is going to come out.  It’s why I have let things remain quiet.  A simple promise is no longer simple.  I should ask to be let out of it, but it’s better to let people be angry with me than angry with the other person.  My life span is now considerably shorter, why not take on that burden?

I thought by leaving I could escape having to deal with this particular issue.  When paying someone for their advice, I guess taking it would be the best option.

But the anger is still there and watching me with it’s seductive gaze.  The warmth of it running through me is appealing, even comforting.  But that is wrong.

The shelf is getting bowed from the weight.  My ability to just turn the cheek is pretty much wasted.  That better person I promised another I would be might be tested in a way that I hope when I see her again she can forgive.

Why couldn’t the shelf jut have pictures and some Legos?


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