Grudging Admission: Still holding
Not gonna let go anytime soon: check back with me in 40 years
My mother used to squeeze a grudge so tight it would scream for mercy. I hold mine gently, often gingerly. I let them go, sooner rather than later — but I don’t let them go too far.
I set them on an unobtrusive shelf, where they gather dust for a time. When the occasion seems to call for one of them, I buff it to a sheen and place it on ostentatious display, front and center — right in your face.
I should amend that: “in my face” — not yours, not anyone’s — these are my precious treasures; they are to be cherished in private. These grudges are mine! Don’t touch them. Don’t even look at them!
Truth be told, I’d be ashamed to have you look at them. Doubtless, you’d scoff every one of them — and rightfully so.
That old thing? Give it a decent burial already!
Seriously? You’ve kept this for twenty years?
My God, you’ve had this for how long now?
Do you even remember where you got it?
Are you sure it belongs to you?
What can I say in my defense? That I have trouble throwing anything out? A lame excuse, for sure. My tossing skills have much improved in general —…
