Going Home, Part Two

I was about to tell you that indeed, my father is always right and was always right. Just like you're always right and I'm always right. Everybody's right. This is the postmodernist way of looking at reality.

From a psycho-educational point of view, searching out how someone who is obviously wrong, in one's own humble opinion, could possibly be right is THE exercise in empathy.

But this post is about mom.

Yet here's the problem. Sometimes, admittedly, I don't have the emotional kai-ach (rhymes with Yay, Bach!) to post things. And this post, Going Home, Part Two, is one of those times. The story is bittersweet, emotional, personal, funny. Nothing you'd want to read, right?

So when I get like this the post goes into "drafts."

I'm sorry. Maybe someday. But I'll share a little, cuz I love you.

We had just finished dinner, which was fabulous, as always, if a little light on the salt. We've graduated to having a salt shaker on the table which I feel is good. Anyway Dad had left the table to take a snooze before dessert, and Mom started washing dishes so they'd be perfectly clean before going into the dishwasher.

FD was about to ask, "Where do I put the leftover . . ."

when Mom turned to us, interrupted. "You know, I always feel guilty. It's like I've never gotten over . . ."

It was rich, it was great. I can't tell it.

By the way, she had nothing to feel guilty about, NOTHING. But we're hard-wired for guilt, some of us, then we find, many years later, rational or not, there it is.

Like I've said before, they're wrong. You can and should go home again.

copyright 2007, therapydoc