No known solution for a cast down, complex, generational formula, each one adding a bitter part of this, or that, practiced, rehearsed the diatribe, what she said, he said, I said, around again over and over once again, our legacy of unhealed conflict, a contagion, like a blunt needle stuck in a worn-out groove, Billie Holiday sings the blues, ad infinitum.

In our family, we give in many ways but with some stuff, we’re really stingy, like with trust, forgiveness, openness, and eventually, we stick our anger, our disappointments, our pain, especially our pain, on an old, dusty shelf; we learn early on to keep hidden our feelings, never will we discuss, process, pardon, our pain, we know only the back burner on a long, slow, simmer.

And at times the old shelf, grows weary, tires of our resentment, our fear, our grief, our unyielding self-righteousness, still it manages until death beckons; and with a silent shiver and our final breath, we push off into eternal darkness, our painfilled DNA, our infectious, internal, indignation intact, leaving yet another broken heart held fast, in the dust, on the shelf.