How hard it is to be the black sheep,
the different one.
Tremendously trying to get along,
to do the respected thing
when you simply cannot.
It is, perhaps, more difficult to know
you wouldn’t feel so alone
if someone else had stayed.
Almost everything my uncle owned
was thrown;
he died after decades of radio silence.
I was presented with the only items kept –
a pile of worn CDs.
A memento from the only flesh and blood
they supposed I’d ever relate to.
Opportunity to speak with him arose just once,
but he was a stranger
and I was a child.
I declined.
He left the Dakotas behind,
never looked back
not even to strike an empty gaze
at parents on their deathbeds.
I’m sure he had his reasons.
I can’t blame him for that,
for all the things
I’ll never know, but
I’ve given up on pretending I’m not bitter.
How alienating it is
to forever be compared
to the absent one.
Sometimes I wonder
if I’m paying for his transgressions.
The reality is I will never know him
beyond the rare stories told.
(a mere side effect of just enough whiskey)
I continually calculate all our similarities
and wonder –
am I doomed all the same?
Perhaps.
For now,
I will refuse to be absent.
Just in case one of my niblings
is different, too.
At least they won’t have to be different alone.
RRCC 