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Written by
E Victoria Flynn
December 2010
Contributor
Written by
E Victoria Flynn
December 2010
There is a funeral procession driving past my house. A long, black hearse followed by another and another and another car swish through the street cutting the sun from my window in choppy stutters. The weather is calm, almost warm. Neighbors are hanging red and green and blue and yellow lights around their porches. I can hear my youngest daughter’s music box begging her to sleep. Or maybe that’s just me begging, culling more time for writing. It has been a hard month for words. NaNoWriMo came on its cold November horse and I followed with all my doubt and aggravation and wanting tied in a leather purse around my waist. I wrote through it and with it. I came to a cusp. I have been angry, all-out furious, with my family for a very long time. There’s a lack of understanding a young girl has when her family splits apart and says nothing by way of explanation. She makes up her own stories. Some of them are right. There’s a selfish abandonment she feels when her siblings leave home, start their own families and return in sporadic bursts. There’s the betrayal of her father leading her to wonder at love, to wonder at trust. Then there are the fights, leavings on a cutting board, who doesn’t speak to whom and why–anymore, I don’t care. And I am not afraid. This is my story. Continue to rest of post here.

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