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Also Vera

DSC_0209 Squeezed between the lines of the family tree. From somebody’s daughter to, if you’re lucky, someone’s mother. Did Vera get that lucky break? It seems unlikely. Born and buried as an add-on to another life.
We exist in an ocean of egos struggling for attention. The wave lifts you for a moment and then drops you and you’re yesterday’s froth. I live deluded that it’s all about me: my heritage, my legacy, my first person point of view. But that’s what you think. That’s what they think. My success is your pride. My failure, your shame.
Women get a particularly rough deal in this struggle. How many gravestones bear the epitaph, son of? The son would at least own his surname and get to keep it for all eternity. Vera simply had her Father’s name on loan. It seems she died with the space for her new brand left blank. Poor Vera. Just the daughter. Never the wife and, so, never the woman.
And God help the child of the Baby Boomer. BB ruled the world, his own space, man, cos the Empire was like so last year. He invented sex and drugs and rock’n’roll. And was keeping them all for himself. Kids had to tag along. They were just kids and this was their time. And then they got old and it’s still their time. They’re sitting pretty in the family pile, bony fingers clutched around the purse strings, demanding Care, payback for all they did for you. They’ve got the pension and the NHS. They’ve taken all the lifeboats and the kids are going down with the ship.
Vera’s never getting her own stone. She’s fucked. But not in a good way.

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