That Simple Request

It was two years ago that I started planning my conversations with my parents. I had spent the previous third of my life trying to communicate with them over the phone. Our collective grasp of language seemed insufficient. Those calls always ended in screaming and crying; always my screaming, always her crying. The last call I did not scream. I read a script. It was so well planned; I thought it would have to work. How could it not?

“You are a manipulative bully. It is time for you to acknowledge my right and ability to govern my own life. If you cannot do that, then our interaction will end.”

It has been two years since that conversation, and without having it written down I remember it perfectly. I often wonder how long she remembered it. I wonder if she even heard the words over her crying. The crying had lost its potency by then. As a tool it no longer achieved the ends she pursued. Perhaps she believed the crying made her exempt from listening. My parents speak a different language than most people. It’s based on chapter and verse and the assumption that age has something to do with who is right and who should listen.

She was not able to comply with my request.

I am not expecting any screwdrivers this year.