They'll say things about me, how I used to do this or that thing but they'll fail to see how they missed the mark or didn't try hard enough to know me.
I speak of my ancestors now, wondering who they were. And, I've got living beings near and far, who are not in my life. Just like I can't blame them for not trying to know me, they can't blame me for not trying to know them either.
It's ironic, how I miss the dead - whom I've never met - but I don't make an effort to be with the living, who are right there.
The past and future unite in this kind of back and forth dialogue. It's hard not to be jaded. It's hard not to see the truth of things. If I had died when I was mugged, I could see my siblings, especially the older one, honouring me in the best possible way...
Everyone would admire how strong we were, how we appreciated one another in life, how he was a good brother and I was a good sister.
Or, he might say how he wished we'd had more time together, how he'd been a better brother, a better man, more attentive. You know how it goes...And life would go on in the usual way.
I'm not impressed. Maybe I'd feel differently if I'd had children. Though I may have had more resolve in my thinking.
It's always about me, me, me...We think we're good people because we take care of our children. Because we tend to our own. "Our own" isn't such a noble endeavour. It's our duty, actually. There's no sacrifice in that.
It's like listening to a fortunate woman who's always wanted children, complaining how tired she is raising her child. I say fortunate because she doesn't need to work to make ends meet. Her husband supports them all.
Her full-time job is raising her child. She's super lucky to be able to do that. Period.
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