Generational Curses

For a long time my home was haunted. My bones, I mean, were haunted. Inside of my bones drips the story of my great grandfather, a ghost of a man I never met.

My tenet, the man who rented my bones, was named Rudolph, Rudy, for short. He was tall, smart, aware {besieged by his awareness}. He had a determined fire within him to never be weak.

But his fear of weakness was a fear of vulnerability, and running from it created a false sense of stability.

So my home is on a foundation of teetering fear and pain, with his demons picking at the pillars Rudy passed down to me.

My home is not something I practice hospitality with, scared that the creaky floors and whispering walls will scare my guests away.

My soul's doorbell is not a welcome song, but a warning sign.

It is a timebomb for those coming into my life.

They will not receive comfort food or warm milk, they will observe a kitchen where the corners and cracks hide demons, and the shadows spread like melted butter into their steps.

But who then is my home good for? If not for me, and not for my loved ones, then for whom?

It is for his demons, now mine, to reside.

And so my guests leave, overwhelmed by my own vacancy.

My curtains close, shivering from the lifeless ghosts.

My windows bow down, fearing the vulnerability of eyes peering into my living room.

A haunted home is meant to be closed.