THE BLOOD TRAVELS
19) Love was something they'd never forgotten about nor ever talked about. Ever
since he'd run way from home as a teen he'd been damaged beyond recognition.
Family was something he'd read about or seen in some movie probably a foreign
film. He'd always dreamed about family and became a happy home loving father.
She was an affectionate mother from an affectionate mother and love was in
abundance. The children were generic and mundane. Spoilt left out uncovered;
all that love had gone bad. They were in love all right. The bickering they
could not live a day without. The annoyances they'd grown accustomed to. They
loved each other's faults to a fault. Endlessly, tirelessly, miraculously.
What was the point of marriage? At least not in the sate they were in.
Mentally, physically and geographically. It all goes back to a moment, life
has those moments. Those ones the good ones. Then the love happens after that,
plant a TV in the center of the room, put the pictures on the mantle, go to
bed. Plan the event take the picture tell the neighbors and the in laws a
co-worker then go to bed. The same picture as everyone else's save your own
fattening face. All those pictures on the mantle on the desk, been there done
that, tick the box, score the card. A menagerie of moments sparked by that
lost moment of love. Milian Kundera writes about it the best, Everything is
dead gutted and stuffed. But neither one would admit it. Love was dead,
mothers day breakfast in bed, fathers day a tie, some package trip or last
minute to Vegas, Easter is slipping away, a birthday an anniversary a wedding
or two, thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie, Christmas credit cards, lots of
junk on expensive present for him from her and one for her from him, repeat,
until divorced or dead.
19) Love was something they'd never forgotten about nor ever talked about. Ever
since he'd run way from home as a teen he'd been damaged beyond recognition.
Family was something he'd read about or seen in some movie probably a foreign
film. He'd always dreamed about family and became a happy home loving father.
She was an affectionate mother from an affectionate mother and love was in
abundance. The children were generic and mundane. Spoilt left out uncovered;
all that love had gone bad. They were in love all right. The bickering they
could not live a day without. The annoyances they'd grown accustomed to. They
loved each other's faults to a fault. Endlessly, tirelessly, miraculously.
What was the point of marriage? At least not in the sate they were in.
Mentally, physically and geographically. It all goes back to a moment, life
has those moments. Those ones the good ones. Then the love happens after that,
plant a TV in the center of the room, put the pictures on the mantle, go to
bed. Plan the event take the picture tell the neighbors and the in laws a
co-worker then go to bed. The same picture as everyone else's save your own
fattening face. All those pictures on the mantle on the desk, been there done
that, tick the box, score the card. A menagerie of moments sparked by that
lost moment of love. Milian Kundera writes about it the best, Everything is
dead gutted and stuffed. But neither one would admit it. Love was dead,
mothers day breakfast in bed, fathers day a tie, some package trip or last
minute to Vegas, Easter is slipping away, a birthday an anniversary a wedding
or two, thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie, Christmas credit cards, lots of
junk on expensive present for him from her and one for her from him, repeat,
until divorced or dead.
xoxo
Sunshine