Housekeeping

I used to keep a diary until I discovered that my mother routinely read it. It was a place much like this, to put down all kinds of thoughts, to vent although that wasn't a word I knew, to explore all the feelings and wonder about the mysteries of living. To keep private thoughts in a private place wasn't easy when you weren't allowed to have them. Ironic, in a home that survived on keeping secrets.

I never talked about my mother's drinking outside the family except to Lee. I didn't understand it, didn't know it wasn't normal. I did know that we never had friends sleep over or come to dinner. There were no birthday parties, no family outings, no picnics, no monopoly games after supper, no bedtime stories. We were five people under the same roof who happened to be blood related and who, most times, didn't even much like each other.

We formed and re-formed alliances. Dad and me. Dad and one or both of my brothers. My brothers alone. My mother almost always stood alone although infrequently she and Dad allied against a suspected bad influence or a poor report card.

So now I'm back to keeping a diary. Only this time, I'm calling it housekeeping.