A Normal Childhood


I now know
every childhood is normal.

I now know
why the attic became a home.

I know
why their living room was my basement.

Know as attic,
my living room,
where I am

outside playing
inside reading

my head home.

They dragged the body
of a marriage up from their basement
and splayed it on the living room floor,
talked over it
for years,
decades of small talk,
or watched telly
silently for hours
as it rotted.

Every childhood normal.

And as it putrefied
below
I cuddled my record player
and kissed my books.

Normal.

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5 thoughts on “A Normal Childhood

    • Jeanie, this Phoenix feels as if he’s mentally tired. With both parents gone now, for several years, I find myself working on half remembered conversations, and hints given much later by my mother that my background, birth, etc. was not what I had always been told. Now I find myself constructing a myth that feels truer. Still much to understand though. You’ve no idea how much your own writing has helped and is helping. Profound thanks.

      • I often feel some mental tiredness too. It’s relieved by time outdoors, a modicum of social interactions, (even though I tend to shun them as they exhaust me after a while) writing, and dreamwork. I’ve had a similar experience of awakening to long-buried family truths that have profoundly influenced my personality and interests; (Ireland series of posts on my blog). Writing is very, very therapeutic for me. When I write the weariness dissolves and is replaced by pleasure and hope. I guess that’s why I do so much of it! I’m so very glad to know it has helped and is helping you. This, too, rinses away my weariness and refreshes my soul. Thank you for caring enough to tell me. 🙂

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