I come from a family of no divorces. The pressure crushes me frequently as I dream of settling down, but know that with the psychiatric diagnoses I've accumulated so far, and the symptoms they boast, no marriage could ever carry me through to the day we'd be parted by death. Unless that death was my own, having been brutally murdered by my spouse. My grandma's horrified face haunts me; I can picture exactly how she'd look on the day I'd announce the end of my marriage, which puts me off the concept altogether. I'm 'prone to impulsive behaviour'; I'll make sure to stay away from Vegas.
I come from a family who comply with social norms. My grandma goes to church on Sunday, my mother only drinks twice a week, and my brother plays for the town's football club. I'm at university, Tom's application is awaiting responses and Robin is an Oxbridge candidate. My mother warns me of the dangers of cancer as I stumble in from the pub after midnight with tobacco smoke clinging to my clothes, though we both know that my great grandfather, who smoked his entire adult life, will see in his 103rd birthday in less than a month.
I come from a family who go away together. We've been staying in the same seaside town in Devon over Whitson week for over 100 years. At one point there'd be 27 of us, Franklins, Davidsons, Eagles and Stokes, made up of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great aunts and uncles, dotted all over the town. We'd meet up on the beach in the afternoons, and bump into each other around the main shopping street in the morning whilst putting together picnic lunches. And when the numbers started to fall, from 27, to 26, to 25, we'd gather on Mill Bay on a Whitson week morning, say a prayer, and wash ashes into the sea.
No comments:
Post a Comment