Familial Myth

We are the everyman, the mutts of a dozen countries in Europe. The strangers, only four generations off the ship on one side of the family. My mother was born Catholic, my father's mother a Mormon, her husband's father a Baptist preacher. Religions of all sorts abound, but they don't like to talk about the mythological implications. Jesus is the go-to word, luck is avoided as a sigh of unbelief. And heaven help you if you tell stories about other gods.

As is true of most myths, my dad's side of the family is the more prevalent one, despite the fact that my mom's family is three times as big. The heroes, if you want to use that word, are the men, the egotistical ones. The three generations of doctors, serving humanity. The rites of passage are incredibly basic, but deceptively hard to achieve, as you deal with the weight of an entire family trying to hold you back, keep you from growing up.

Once you reach eighteen, that protectiveness stops, and you are dropped on your head, so to speak. You'd better find out how to be a hero, and fast, or you'll end up being just another red shirt.Of course you are urged to keep in touch. What kind of hero calls his mom to let her know how he's doing? But yeah. Much as I want to create a new story, I don't know if I will be able to. After all, don't all myths just repeat after a while? Besides, there's really no such thing as a new story. Just different parts of the same tale.

Posted in response to the Week Two prompts