i rise from bed; i say rise when i mean the quicksand of blankets almost swallowed me for breakfast. but ma has called me for the second time and i am downstairs before my dad’s voice follows hers. fear is a strong motivator. i wonder if every home’s dining room makes for an interrogation cell. i make a performance out of eating, precise bites taken with little room for words. must we do this in the morning? career, friends, future. my body on the table for dissection.
she walks into the room bleary-eyed. another late night then? she responds to me with the diligence of a checkbox. yes, no and blank. its not that she is quiet. i am quiet; accustomed, even fond of silences. but she exits every room i enter and i feel less like a person than a foreboding. my wife says it's teenagers. is it teenagers? i am stretching every question into a conversation and lingering in the aftermath. closed door, unfinished plate, an empty seat. have you outgrown me?
a/n: the “two stories” are his and mine. but really they are both mine and his version will remain out of my reach. i like to think it haunts mine and they share this space in ways we could not.
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