Apologies to Ms Bronte, it’s been a long time.

Do you ever feel like the beginning of Whuthering Heights? Like you are sitting at the dinner table in a dysfunctional mess, and someone steps in for a visit and can’t quit figure out what is going on. Who is who and why are they angry? And nobody cares that the visitor doesn’t get it. They are too much into their situations to care.

It’s a snapshot moment. Just a snapshot of the dynamics in that household.

I feel that way sometimes.

I feel like both parties in this story – the person at the table caught up in my own situation, and the visitor trying to figure it out. I see it freeze-framed in my mind. I would paint it if I could. With shadows and grimy scowls.

And if I remember correctly, at the end of the book we, the reader, is brought back to that scene at the beginning. And we all say “Ah! Now I get it!”

Not that our getting it helps the characters in anyway. But still, it’s nice to be in on the story.

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