The Moral
Angry tones don’t make old bones
so never throw sticks and stones.
Don’t say it again, mother. I know. I know. You’ve said it a million times. No excuse for temper, for shouting. But what if there’s no other way to get you to listen to me? And yes, I know our family has heart problems, blood pressure issues. I’m not bloody surprised, mother, if we all spout appalling proverbs like that at each other through the generations–your head tilted slightly to one side, a knowing smile as you trot out some terrible rhyme, some trite piece of village idiot philosophy that you think entitles you not to listen to me, not to engage with anything at all.
Well, as you’ve suggested, I’m going to deal with my anger. I’m going to release it, let it pour out like sand through fingers, in one delicious smooth stream. Here’s the knotted scarf. Yes, that’s shut you up, hasn’t it? And now you’re struggling and trying to gasp for air. What’s that, mother? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Oh, look, mother. It turns out you were right–anger does kill.
How about a new family saying?
Repeating mottoes ad nauseam
will take you to the mausoleum.
