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My mother used to cry a lot when I was little. There's a family story of me diligently trying to pretend I was my father coming in and going into the other room. I got his shoes out of the closet and made my three-year-old's little voice as low as it could register.
My father beat sons and raped little girls.
He wouldn't have called it that though. He would have called it discipline and awakening.
Later, it hit me that my mother was crying to have a beater and a rapist come back into her life and be with her.
He was quite a charming man, and was very good at making women feel like they weren't up to his exceedingly high standards. Making them fat was one of his favorite ploys.
Nobody cares anymore but me. He's been dead for so many ages, and I still carry him around in me like a little piece of sand inside my metaphorical oyster.
That flock of slow moving circling soaring birds is again in this neighborhood.
This house I'm in now was kind of a gift from my stepfather. My mother chose a man after my father who was very kind but liked to hide it behind his silence. When I was a little girl, and maybe even now,I never thought anyone thought I was any good except for maybe teachers.
Teachers always seemed to think I was extraordinary. At home, I was always asked why I didn't make a 100 instead of a 97. I tried to explain that socially, you become a pariah if you're always so perfect. I wanted to be popular way more than I wanted to be a valedictorian.
Last night, I texted him twelve times in a row. He responded zero. I dreamt of things that didn't make me feel like death, but one of them was a kind jail that was inhabited by his sister. I had left something in the car, but I never went back to get it.
The hardest thing is saying goodbye in your head when no one but you seems to care.
I loved you so much, and television does nothing for me either.
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