Stung

"Truth should sting, in its way,
like a major bee, not a sweat bee."
                   ~ Diane Seuss


      And so I can totally relate when I read  
             the transcript of an NPR feature on familial
estrangement my husband sends me. I too feel 
      blindsided. I still don't have a clear idea 
about why exactly my eldest child won't talk
             to me or to the rest of the family. No doubt 
this is intentional. It doesn't feel like 
      a momentary tantrum. It's been months. No,
a year, more than a year. I'm not looking
             for epiphanies. This is not a narrative
poem nor even a confession. As young people say
      these days, It's not always about you. I'm not 
even sure it's absolution I want or need. I've been 
             stung over and over, none of this 
necessarily easier with time. Who are we kidding? 
      I doubt it, but perhaps I'm past the age of rue. 
Rue, from the Greek root reuo, which means to set free 
             besides to regret. Whoever said Absence 
makes the heart grow fonder is a charlatan of  
      the lowest order. I'm not interested in knowing blue 
hyacinths, tulips, orchids, and lily of the valley 
             mean apology, but I can't not care. What
do I know anyway? I say sometimes; I'm only ___.