A story no longer told

I have a story that I used to tell. Said story involved me, my brother and a large kitchen knife. The story didn't end happily, but it didn't end badly either. Sometimes just an ending is the best you can hope for.

I've stopped telling that story. My mom asked me to stop telling it, and out of respect for her I have. Not telling the story doesn't mean it didn't happen, nor does it undo the times I had told.

Ben mentioned it last night when he, Lisa and I were sitting around the fire talking. He asked about it, and my parents' divorce, and a number of other questions before coming to the conclusion I had a rough childhood. I can't say it was a piece of cake, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't truly a bad childhood. There were no drugs, no hunger, no creepy uncles or physically abuse relatives.

We had a large dose of religion, two young parents trying to find their way, three aimless youths with a complete lack of direction and a small town environment with lots of freedom.

I think we did okay.

Ben eventually agreed, but did point out my childhood had a lot more drama than his did. That, now, I couldn't argue with. Fortunately, I had Guy and Kris to show me that a life without drama can still be a wonderful place to be.