It’s not a melody that soothes my soul.
A chorus of four words.
The volume gets louder.
The four words echo.
The acoustics are horrible.
No softness to absorb the sound
That came from the speaker.
The sound reverberates on calloused walls.
The door did not slam.
The needle did not scrape across the vinyl.
The words came through the speaker
A premeditated verse?
Likely sung to a small crowd in a different setting.
Sung to someone who could be trusted with this emotion.
The words were delivered with clarity.
These four words should not have been recorded.
Yet they play over and over again.
“I hate my family.”
No exclamation mark.
Just period. Just like that. The words were said.
I don’t recall the words that preceded this moment.
This moment in time that repeats in my mind.
Heard dozens of times.
It continues to play. Continues to echo.
Did I misunderstand the words?
I cry. I ask.
No remorse. No apology to soften the echo.
So on and on it continues to play.
That thing I thought I did well.
Time to get it right. Or try.
The words keep repeating in my mind.
I. Hate. My. Family.
Considering all I’ve gotten wrong.
All the dead ends.
This shouldn’t be a shock. But it is.
This I thought was my one success.
Mom. Mom. MOM!
I reach out to stop this song from skipping.
One-third of this family.
Our family of three.
The family she hates.
The needle stops playing this haunting phrase.
She may not be alone with this thought.
Friends are family we chose. They say.
They The many that feel This same remorse.
Lamenting from where they came.
Lamenting how they grew.
Lamenting who they look like. Act like. Sound like.
Hate. A strong word.
Until they are so far from home.
Struggling with their own family.
What will you chose, my dear?
To skip a generation