The other day I wrote of suspiscions regarding a colleaugue's interst in working with me. Today that friend is in town. We had breakfast. It was great to see him. There was no need for me to even bring up my allegations, because they are in my head. Unsubstantiated reactions to a change in circumstances.
My mother died from a gunshot wound to the head. At the time, her sisters and her paramour strongly believed my stepfather was the shooter. Eleven detectives and two FBI agents investigated the case for six months. My step-father was interrogated but never arrested. Nothing more than circumstantial evidence was uncovered. The Distict Attorney would not accept the case because of the lack of hard evidence.
I'm not drawing any conclusions here. Just saying what comes to mind.
I am, however, drawn to the idea that my willingness to make a case for the injustices I suffer in every day life is born out of an inner need to solve the big mystery of my mother's death. Intellectually I say I have let go of the answer. Perhaps that is not entirely true.
I honestly do not know.
Again, more will be revealed.
Pasta and Bagels,
Signore Direttore
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