Butterflies and Hurricanes

It’s always a little shocking when it happens.

A sudden surge of irritation. It happens in an instant, like three quick pistol shots inside my head. Pew! An inane noise, like the door slamming shut louder than usual. Pew! An innocuous action, like the fridge door being left open a few seconds longer. Pew! A mild irritant, like the thin layer of sweat forming on my forehead. 

And then it’s out of my control. There’s no telling which direction my sharp tongue is going to take or how much my brows are going to furrow or whether I’m going to walk away in a huff. Who can tell? What shocks me more than the infuriation itself, is the fact that this seems familiar. All too familiar. 

I picture my mother, twenty years younger and calm as a sage in our kitchen. Thoughtless, ungrateful actions and the churlish behaviour of three young children was quite a lot for her to deal with. I understand this now. I couldn’t back then. An affectionate touch on her waist when she was racing against time could send her flying off the handle. 

Pew! Pew! Pew!

Her words cut like glass, and often felt like venom. With tears clinging to our eyes, we’d sit at the dining table and swallow food that tasted like sandpaper. I’d look down at my lap as I forced each morsel into my mouth. I’d never be like her. I was sure of it. No matter the situation, I wouldn’t hurt people with my words, especially the ones I loved. 

The thirty-year-old in me guffaws. I resign to my fate as I sit ashen-faced at the misery my words cause around me. I look at the bullet-sized holes my words leave behind, and I can only hope I will be forgiven. 

Some habits we pick up as adults. They’re easier to part with. Some, however, are the baggage we inherit as we sleep in our childhood beds. What do we do except lug it around?