Monday, Oct. 19

Monday, Oct. 19

  Dear diary,

  

  Have I told you anything about my family? I think not. You can’t possibly blame me, diary, it’s no secret how greatly I resent most of them.

 

  Granddad and Grandma met during the late 1950’s. His father, my great-grandfather, at first had taken a special interest in Grandma. When he realized that was never going to work, he made way for his son. It’s all sickening, but I suppose it runs in their family. After a month of courting her, they got married quietly in a cheap, rundown chapel on the outskirts of California. A year later, they produced my mother, Florence, and another year later, my aunt Dorian. They were both no older than eighteen. 

  Mom and Dad were a bit smarter.  They’d waited till both had finished their education and had a settled career before letting their passion for each other fully erupt. During the full nineteen years of their marriage, they’d had three children, in which only one lives on today. Their first child was a son whom Dad had been long awaiting, precious Jasper. John followed after a couple years, although much less admired than Jasper; he was nonetheless a gem in their marriage. All four together, they’d formed an affectionate, well-respected family. Four years of love, peace, then the mother bore a third child, a daughter whom the father never intended to have, never wanted. In one of those occasional moments when I could just joke around with my grandmother, she’d tell me that, in their state of shock, mom and dad took nearly two weeks just naming me, so she took things in her own hands and named me after her favorite flower.

  The irony is, both I and my mom are dangerously allergic to her favorite flower.