{i miss paper letters}

I suppose I can’t blame my father, in spite of the fact that he and my mother were, for as long as I can remember, constant role models for a satisfied existence.  For years, because of the examples they set, I believed that the key to happiness lay in the ability to think and act rationally, that the only truly unhappy people were those that acted on impulse, without regard to consequences.  I considered myself one of the lucky ones always able to justify my actions, not that it was ever really necessary since my life was—up to now—safe and relatively uncomplicated.

I put a lot of effort toward not hurting people’s feelings or stepping on any toes.  I was the tortoise, and that was just fine with me.  I made excellent grades, went to a good college and met the man of my dreams; we were married just after graduation in a small outdoor ceremony with only our closest friends and family.  We honeymooned in Italy, the home of his ancestry, and returned tanned and relaxed, with more glass figurines than customs cared to count.

It wasn’t long before I was pregnant, then pregnant again; first a boy, Ethan and then a girl, Elise.  Our family was “quintessential”, as one reporter from a famed women’s magazine insisted, our children were beautiful; they too made excellent grades, went to good colleges and now have families of their own, which bring us all unimaginable joy.

So what, you are probably wondering, have I got to complain about?  Oh nothing, really . . . just the fact that my father took the shotgun down from the place it was kept for years without ever being disturbed, dusted off two shells from a full box, loaded the cartridges in one by one and then shot my mother in the head while she slept on a hand-embroidered pillowcase before kissing the barrels and himself goodbye . . . that’s really the only thing I could think of right now; that, and the vivid truth which has become so clear to me now:

There is no such thing as the reassurance of the rational.