Some days I feel light as a feather. Light with knowledge that there’s nothing ahead of me but to live my own life here.

Some days I feel so heavy. Pulled down by your pain, your memories, your history. I feel crushed by the weight of it.

Some days are only about what’s for dinner this week, whether we’ll get to fit in watching “Top Chef” episodes between Mickey Mouse and Toy Story over the weekend, and if my in-laws want to come visit.

Some days it’s about your failed marriage to my father in 1999, or your losing your first husband in a fatal car accident in 1983, your inadequate relationship with your own parents when you were a child and young adult, and far, far more examples than I care to name right this second. Maybe that post will come along eventually, if I feel vindictive enough to try relieving myself of thousands of pounds of dirty laundry by airing it here. I’m not quite ready for that level of honesty; for now, it’s enough to know that even if I am ready for that someday, you sure as hell never will be.

You always referred to my brother as your cross to bear; not that I had any choice as a small child, but, I don’t recall ever agreeing to let you be mine.

Some days the chaos I carry around belongs to me. Some days that chaos belongs to you. And for G-d’s sake, my chaos is a burden enough on its own sometimes. Your shit is much fucking heavier; admittedly, you’ve had thirty-five more years on this planet to accumulate it before I even showed up.

Returning it all to you is not an option; my departure was a one-way ticket, and you would refuse to take that shit back anyway. So now I’m stuck carrying the load, day by day, aching to be rid of your bedlam, searching for dumpsters along my way.

You’re a biographical parasite, and you itch.