Raspberries

The taste of raspberries reminds me of your garden. I haven’t been there in a long time, but the memories are just as clear as they’ve been five or ten years ago. Clear, but now with a blue undertone that makes me feel a little sick.

Why couldn’t you have been normal grandparents? Why are all our memories limited to those imposed walks through your garden and those dinners where you would clearly so much rather have sat at home watching the news or reading the same books over and over again? Why couldn’t you come visit us sometimes? Why could’t you teach us how to

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bake or play chess or make paper planes? Why couldn’t you remember my birthday?

I know that I have no idea what it is like to be you guys, what it is like to live a difficult life and grow as old as you are now. But, your life isn’t difficult anymore, you have it so easy. So, why couldn’t you make it easy for us? Why couldn’t you make it easy for Mama; why do you have to be so loveless? Why did you have to kick us out of our house when I was two? Why did you have to tell me I was fat when I was thirteen? Why do you always have to tell me how horrible my mother is when she is actually the opposite of all that is wrong with you?

You don’t want us living in California; you want us back home, so you can see us every few months and be able to say how proud you are of how great your grandchildren turned out. But, you have no right to take credit. I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel and that’s how you made me feel.

I know I am so lucky with the life I have, but I am mad. I am mad and that’s your fault. You are the reason I get mad when I taste raspberries, you are the reason I never got to have grandparents.

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