I was reading this silly book called Six Word Memoirs, where you use six words to sum up your life or something. My brain started tossing around words and in light of this blog I came up with, “You’re bad luck.” I believed it.
I’ll never forget that day. Ruthie and I were playing in the hallway. You had gotten up from the living room and stood at the doorway and said, “Lynn, are you going to bring me bad luck every 11 years?” It was my birthday, a Friday the Thirteenth. I had no idea how to answer that.
I still wonder if you meant it, and why you would feel that way. Those words affected me for the longest time, feeling responsible for your death in some way. Especially after I had prayed for God to take you to heaven so you wouldn’t suffer. Prayed to God. Mother did die.
My mind travels. You had appendicitis when I was born on Friday the Thirteenth, and was told we almost died. I wondered if you thought of me as some evil demon. Or maybe you had an out-of-body experience that scared you so much, it felt safer to blame me. Or maybe you were not really aware of what you were saying.
I know in my heart it’s not true, now.
I’ve tried watching my words when talking to my children. No doubt I have slipped up because who knows what affects others, really. But I still try to be careful.
No matter what, good will come.