resentment stuffed in the bottom drawer

When I resent you I'm usually on my knees somewhere. Tonight I was unpacking groceries and trying to get my industrialize size bag of carrots to fit into my refrigerators bottom drawer. You were eating potato salad out of the jar. Rendering it a single serving. You have these ideas and they are so big and I don't even hear them. Your telling me what to buy and my purchases are scattered across the shelves. Now, what not to buy. I feel like a child. On my knees.
My mother is making her motions over your shoulder. Warning me to behave. I feel like asking to be tucked in for the night. But, that would make me different them my siblings. I don't want to be different. I want to be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with my brothers and feel similar.
But I'm spending myself away from them.
Elbow noodles. Can we really have a conversation about how they are the kosher pork of passover?
I remember how my mother speaks. Her words always catch up to me.
Tonight she said how she feels embarrassed. Or, she should feel embarrassed.
And that her rabbi said in astonishment, "embarrassed?" And he laughed.
"You know who should be embarrassed, people who sin! That's embarrassing!"
And then I'm on my knees again.
Your right.
And I am always moving in so many wrongs away from you.
I have found that if I stand up slowly I can stop my resentment from rushing to my head and blowing up all sorts of proportions.
I can see things clearly.
But sometimes resentment is better then clarity.
Because clarity feels a whole lot like guilt.
The carrots have somehow squeezed themselves into my bottom drawer,
and when I stand up slowly,
I see you seeing me.
And I'm ashamed.