Mine was a most unusual family. Unique. Strange. Bizarre. Black and white and sepia. Lurid LA Confidential torch flame colors. Bird of paradise patterns. Truly a complex kaleidoscope of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and the cronies who came and went.
They seemed to exist in a world that did not match anywhere, anyone nor anything. When it came to characters larger than life etched from the most somber ochres, bowel browns and muddied charcoals, The Levensons had no parallel. The Segals were equally smudge-worthy, but then again, I did not live with them, only my father who certainly deserved his rightful place along side The Hall of Felons who married into that clan.
Isn’t that the way it always seems to etch out?
Like to like. Tolstoy may have been right. All unhappy families are different. He just never wrote the darkest truths. He couldn't.
He wasn’t a woman.
