“And the love is free…” I came upon this phrase in an Aussie cookbook written by a daughter about her mother.
I grieve that as time passes, it seems more and more unlikely that the love will be free. Free of recriminations, of judgement, of past mistakes as swords held over the other’s head, of cruel hurtful words remembered and begrudgingly watered for eons to flower into massive weeds of unhappiness.
I grieve my father, now dead 16 years. I grieve for a mother who floundered in the aftermath, who escaped into bitterness and resentment and never really made it back. I grieve that I’m more like him than anyone else, and that makes me an outcast. I grieve every time I am painted into a corner, with no one on my side.
Most of all, I grieve for the inability to break free.