PTSD

Gramma, 

Hail predicted.  Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage.  That pretty much insures we won't get any weather.  Can't believe anything these hacks say.  First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m.  It was sunny and hot.  We need rain.  My grass is shredded wheat. 

The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere.  I deadhead every morning.  All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass.  Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this.  The windows are open and he is singing away. 

Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth.  My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late.  They spent the night.  We grilled and drank a lot of beer.  The kids had a fire in the pit.  I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing.  There is a bruise on my ribcage.  I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning. 

Party at my son's the next night.  He bought the house and land where he was raised.  I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home.  I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things.  Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots.  It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990. 

My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd  given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch.  Bullets flew past us.  The shepherd went down.  I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house.  "Get Baby," she yelled.  Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday.  Baby was wearing a bonnet.  I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety. 

When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet.  Later, I called the Sheriff's Department.  An officer showed up and blew me off.  My husband's family had the police in their pocket.  I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help.  He too ignored me.  I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed. 
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time.  I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me. 

Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed.  I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch.  That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary.  My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time.  Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother?