When a mother dies.
I know I shouldn't write this, it should be all left unsaid. But once I start a train of thought, I rarely let it go.
Today I went to a house. A little rambling farm house. It sits on the edge of a low valley that leads you to the entrance of two giant mountain ranges. You could drive straight by it really, except it has a sign about an artist studio, with flags out front, to capture your eye.
I am sorry. I shouldn't write this. But I will.
It once was a house of Grandparents. Ones that raised their two grandsons right there, in that house. They were very small toddlers when their mother died. The world is a horrible thing. I heard whispers of a car crash, a father that could not cope, a new step-mum who did not want them. They are just whispers of heartbreak...of course.
And I can tell you, its so fucking hard to have compassion for these grandsons. I know that sounds hard and harsh, not knowing the whole story.
But compassion. I still have, I am just built that way.
And thats where a story has two sides, always.
I don't know what went wrong, but something did. Something big and ugly grew in those boys. Something that no one dealt with. No one saved us from their angry little souls. Or themselves, from their angry little souls. The ripple of devastating effect of this, is lifelong for others, and for them, I am sure.
Maybe they were not cuddled enough, maybe they were not praised enough, just not...... loved enough.
Which is unbelievably sad.
Their Grandfather was a quite, gentle man who was a well know painter. He passed away last year and now his house and studio has been flung wide open, to all. A little artist co-op has now opened up in that house.
Yes, the one I rode my bicycle past every day to school. The one, I would ride on the other side of the road past. I became a sleuth of avoiding trouble. A timed slow ride......scanning......then fast peddle with all my heart. To safety.....around the corner. homeward bound.
I don't want to write this, but I can't stop myself.
Its a lovely little art studio now. And today I got shown around the house, to every corner of it actually. The lady there was telling me all about the well known artist and I nodded and said..... fascinating.
I said..." actually did you know he raised his two grandsons in this house too?" She looked at me dumbfounded....
"well......no I didn't, oh, so your a local."
Mmmmmm. I thought, it does not really say that, in the lovely dedicated tile on that wall to a well known artist, who raised his own son, and then he raised his extremely troubled grandsons.....
Sometimes you just never know the whole story.