~Strength, then and now~
My sister was a handful during her teens. Eventually, it got to be too much for my Mom. I had gotten into a conversation with her at the kitchen table about her lax attitude toward my sister, and it got quite heated.

I made my Mom cry. I am so going to hell for that one.

She was trying to head down the hall to the sanctuary of her bedroom, and I was trying to stop her, as I wanted to finish the conversation. (I wasn't bullying her, I've just always been a bit of the bull in the china shop. A strong personality and an inability to appreciate a lack of that in others has caused me untold grief over the years.)

That was when my Dad walked in the back door. Before you ask, yes, I got my stubborn, headstrong streak from him. He took in the situation, or what he imagined the situation to be, and freaked. I put my arm down, and Mom scuttled off, leaving me to face Dad's wrath.

I remember I was wearing one of his hockey shirts. He approached me, grasping the shirt and heaving me up to his eye level; my feet were barely touching the ground. He was waiting for me to crumble. I didn't.

He apologized later, once he'd spoken to Mom. Too little, too late.

As I think back to that night, I'm still proud I didn't cave in to his manhandling tactics. I wish I were still that strong.

Maybe I'm still that strong, and I've just lost the ability to summon it?

Why is it mostly the troubling memories that make the biggest impression on us?

Posted at 11:02 a.m.