I’ve never been the perfect son — consideration is exactly that: something I have to make an effort to do, not something that ‘just happens’. I can do all right most of the time, and I am certainly a loving son. I’d say that with my immediate family I’m probably about 70/30 decent, lifetime average (the average is slowly rising as adulthood starts to outnumber my teenage years).
But with my extended family, not so much. I’ve had fallings-out with this or that relative over the years, usually resolved to the satisfaction of all involved.
Sometimes not.
It’s one of those ‘sometimes not’ situations that bites me in the ass every now and then.
My grandmother, whom I adore, comes to Denver every so often to visit. She stays with my aunt, who lives closer to the airport than I do. My aunt and I don’t get along, due to a situation that came up when I first moved to Denver, and I’m fine with that situation — the fact that we don’t get along doesn’t even register on my radar 98.9% of the time — honestly, I like knowing exactly where I stand. I didn’t have that luxury in 1995, and I got burned.
Then there’s the 1.1% of the time when my grandmother’s in town making subtle mention of a reconciliation I’ve absolutely no interest in — the whole arrangement makes her visiting us a little difficult; sometimes very difficult. The evolution of this situation is developing in such a way that I have to make a larger and larger portion of the effort to arrange any time with my Grandma when she’s in town.
This time (hey, did I mention there was a ‘this time’?), I didn’t get any warning of her visit and had already scheduled myself up to the vestigal gills. I made my schedule available to everyone involved, and made sure my ‘open spots’ remained open.
My grandmother flew back home on Wednesday morning. Unseen. Unvisited with.
I feel as though I’m supposed to feel it’s my fault. Somehow I don’t.
