“poor little wormie,” Jack said in a sweet, soft little boys’ tone. I was on the phone to my mother while she was taking him fishing at the stream at the side of the property. Obviously, they were putting worms on the hook, and my mother was encouraging the horror at the destruction of one of earth’s little creatures. So how is it that Jack is supposed to be a man? He is 16 now, the second, and last, grandchild. My sister is 45 and won’t be having any.
“Don’t ever tell anybody I ever said that,” I hear my mother saying to me a few minutes after hanging up with her on the phone.
Today I am casting around looking for solutions. I have reached the end of all the trouble of the past 10 years or so, involving the divorce, and my son’s plight, had a nice lunch with them (my mother and father)–it was delicious, I don’t eat like that often (they dine out about once a week, I pointed out. On the phone.)
The argument is coming from everywhere and on all sides. Everybody seems to have a battle with me, or I have a problem with them, or both. All that to the side, there’s no money. Somehow I have ended up at 55 (shortly) without the means to sustain my life. I have no “Tara” to run home to (Gone With the Wind.) I have “no little bit of earth” (The Secret Garden.) Somehow I have not been provided for. the rest of the family has lived well while I struggled, gave, and suffered. When there’s no money there’s an argument. So I have come here at this moment to fight back. SHE just threw something at me so I have this to throw at her.
“poor little wormie,” Jack said. Remember it, Mom. I do.