Inheritance

Just look at you,
do it this way,
do it that way.
What you need to do is this ... or that.

Like you know everything and your life is all in order and up for scrutinising. Nice house, all neat and tidy, two cars on the drive, no debt. Like you said so many times, your children will never behave like mine have. You would not stand for it. Just like you wouldn’t have MDF, only stripped pine, no cheap stuff for you. And so you went on, and on, and on.

Just like he did all my life, just like a dripping tap … torture.
So proper,
so sorted,
so structured.

The voice too,
the ‘Gooood Arfternooon’,
you know the one that goes with the china cups and saucers and the tea tray and squares of Madeira cake followed by linen serviettes to wipe the pinkies.

Nothing wrong with that,
except you deliver it with a spoonful of ‘See, this is how it should be done, therefore you fail’
instead of lump sugar and sugar tongs.

He was the same,
Hold your knife properly or else eat in the kitchen,
remove yourself from the table,
you disgust me.

I probably did,
disgust him,
that is.
After all I got it wrong from the start,
I was a girl, not the son and heir he wanted.
And what was all that ‘Breathe quietly, you are disturbing me or go to your room’
You want to try it sometimes, listen to how loud you are breathing and then work out if it too noisy.
Actually, don’t bother, I’ll tell you what it’s like, because you stop, breathing …
you stop and try and catch silent seconds of air,
just enough to keep you going until it is acceptable to leave the room.
Then you inhale like your life depends on it.
And it’s a tone of voice thing,
you both have it,
you and him,
makes sense since you are his daughter.
Authoritative verbal power.
My skin fails me,
lets me down,
because the words seep through my skin,
filter into my veins and use my body like it’s the worlds longest rollercoaster ride.
Spinning,
twisting,
running in and out of my brain,
up,
over
and through my heart
draining me,
weakening me so I cannot fight back.