Part II-- Father, Good Godzilla

There were pictures of them falling in love from the beginning. She often confessed that she felt akin to those eyes of his, all-a-twinkle, right from the start. Now that I'm an adult, I can speculate that for many couples it begins thataway. That "driveless drive", that ambiguity of quote, unquote love. After a month, two, three, whatever it takes-- the masks come off and the projections begin to circulate like so much bad breath around the room.



My father was a good man. At least he was, to me. But there it was, this small thing-- he'd forget to put a cork in his alembic and there were many times what was brewing inside of him would simply spill out all over us. He couldn't seem to be able to distinguish what was himself, and what was my mother. It was as though all boundary lines had ceased to exist, and his own interstellar wars from within became major battles within our kitchen, living room, car-- on our outings and on the phone; no place was safe.

The beast came out unexpectedly, and when he did why, he'd smash up everything in site. Even the hearts belonging to the people he thought he loved. As I got older, I began to suspect that my mother would actually go crazy, with this false picture of reality always presented to her as a mirror. Either that or die of a heart attack. But she didn't. She got angry. She became an all-consuming tornado tearing it up on every divorce blog she could find. Self-defeating behavior, finally acquiescing to the images Godzilla threw at her face.

It didn't take Mom long to figure out she didn't like being the bride of Frankenstein. She didn’t threaten to leave. She sadly acknowledged that she would.




(Or, if you prefer Xena)