Generations

And I stood there, watching, as dad fought with mom to tear her out of the car. So that she couldn't drive off and kill herself. 
I was nine, but it was clear what was going on.
Your father was too young then, I don't think he knows.

The bar was growing quiet, Tuesday night on the soft, tree-lined streets of the Village and no one knew the storm was so close. My aunt sat before me old in her limbs but her words were those of a little girl. All your grandfather can say about that is that it wasn't the only time. 

My roommate tries to put on lunch for me, while I have my hands full with dishes. Her indulgence overwhelms me, feels sticky in its intrusiveness; I have to decline several times before she turns off the stove. You really don't like being mothered, do you? she says, and after four years it's like it's the first time she notices. After 31, it's like I can't get myself to stop.

I went back a few years ago, before she was too ill to remember. I guess I was hoping to hear that she wanted her children, at least. After all those years, she still couldn't so much as say that she loved us. But I guess we knew that already.

We parted ways on Seventh Avenue, as they caught a cab for Brooklyn. I walked down the quiet length of Bedford, overwhelmed with the story and the life.

Saw again how the blood runs so dark in our veins.