Once upon every time, each family hands down its stories. Many are never told, outside of the small circles huddled around the last sleeping mat that old Auntie ever would lay in, or during that mourning time we had to spend together after the passing of Dear Old father. You know.
After long hesitation, I’ve decided to tell you ours. Mine. This one.
My grandfather was a religious nut who went around breaking into other people’s sanctuaries and destroying their statues and holy relics. It is not surprising that he had to keep moving out of town, and never settled down properly. He had two sons; and abandoned one of them. Probably they had some sisters but I’ve never heard their names mentioned. I could blame my grandmother for the ‘lost’ great-uncle, since she was the jealous type, but I blame him. The patriarch we are all supposed to admire and speak no ill of.
My father, Izzy, now he was a piece of work. God’s gift to everyone, or so he would tell you. But what did he ever do, when it comes down to it? He found my mother and married her; I’ll give him that. God bless my mother, Becca, she had a lot to put up with. She saved me more than once. Izzy carried on the family line, he was good for that much. He told us about the time his father almost slit his throat, told us about wrecking all the statuary and how they kept losing everything and being forced to move far, far away again and again. Izzy retired early and just grew older and older, being apparently in no hurry to die and leave us something to live on.
But it’s really about my brother. I think this whole story is really about my brother. Damn him.