Flies in the ointment and out
Y
I’ve
lived all my life around narcissists – my Aunt Martha in whose house I spent a
considerable amount of childhood time foremost among them, though not her husband, Uncle Darrow or his
sister, my mother, who were with me, however, only minor moons orbiting Aunt Martha's planet. Uncle Darrow:
a medium, soft man with (maybe)
a high school education, he possessed one remarkable faculty, almost unfailing
hand-eye coordination, so that anything anyone could show him he could do. As a result he was never out of work:
plastering, papering, putting on roofs, playing golf for other people’s
money. His sister, my mother, also had
one extraordinary gift, a heart so keen she knew what others were feeling
before they did. It served her in
great-good stead with Aunt Martha; Mom was already elsewhere when her
sister-in-law lost all patience with her. But alas, poor Mom, it was the only way she could defend herself - disappear.
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