I was frustrated, as I was mowing out back, by the unused inflatable pool still in the yard, with rainwater in it again from the recent storms, despite my having asked for it to be taken care of the last time that I mowed. I noticed that my self-talk over this small annoyance sounded disconcertingly like my dad's drunken rantings in the bathroom at night after my sister and I had gone to bed.
I always hoped, when we were kids, that she was sleeping through his expletive-laced tirades. After he died, I wanted for her to have warm memories of the joy he took in her before he became completely lost. But I learned before she died that she only remembered the scary, drunk version of dad. She didn't know she was once his pride and joy.
I continue to stand guard against other thought processes that would tend to make me more fully his son in ways that would not be good for anyone. Perhaps a good place to be more vigilant might be to nurture the greater gratitude that he never found for the blessings of my life, along with more patience when things don't go exactly as I'd like.
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