Somewhere around the time my mom collapsed, frustration seeped into our house.
Hard to see at the beginning, flares sprouted this week. I sat in my car as the dogs roamed the backyard. They yipped a greeting when I first pulled in. As I continued to just sit there, they paced back and forth between the fence where they could see me and the backdoor to tell my mom I was home.
I didn't think about it. They played, chasing each other, birds from the yard. They're dogs. They did dog things. I sat, not anywhere I had to be. In-between and free.
Mom came out to check on me. Like I'm a kid or got lost from the car to the garage door. I handed her the Starbucks scone I'd bought her. She asked me what was wrong. I said I'd be in later.
Clocks tick again. I should move, to-do things wait with tapping, impatient fingers. Check the dogs, talk about house responsibilities. Somewhere between the garage door and my room, the burned smell of ruptured frustration wafted subtly in space.
If I go to bed, hurt and confusion will make friends. They'll hang out in the living room, and bad things come of their time.
I asked my mom to talk with me. Somewhere in the conversation, my bad mood, strung next to hers, paled and faded.
Her eyes blazed, saying she didn't expect to be here. In a rent house falling down around her. Living paycheck to paycheck. No one will come when I ask. I can't make it to the corner of the street without help.
Her nose flared, her gestures sharp and angry. You want to talk about a bad mood, about disappointment? she asked. (No, not really. Not like this, I thought.)
I've had 63 years of it.
Silence hung as time plodded. She left not too long after, making her way slowly to her room.
The house creaked as I swallowed and tried to remember how to blink.
I turned over, my eyelids falling no matter how I fought. And the smell of burned rubber grew stronger.
Hard to see at the beginning, flares sprouted this week. I sat in my car as the dogs roamed the backyard. They yipped a greeting when I first pulled in. As I continued to just sit there, they paced back and forth between the fence where they could see me and the backdoor to tell my mom I was home.
I didn't think about it. They played, chasing each other, birds from the yard. They're dogs. They did dog things. I sat, not anywhere I had to be. In-between and free.
Mom came out to check on me. Like I'm a kid or got lost from the car to the garage door. I handed her the Starbucks scone I'd bought her. She asked me what was wrong. I said I'd be in later.
Clocks tick again. I should move, to-do things wait with tapping, impatient fingers. Check the dogs, talk about house responsibilities. Somewhere between the garage door and my room, the burned smell of ruptured frustration wafted subtly in space.
If I go to bed, hurt and confusion will make friends. They'll hang out in the living room, and bad things come of their time.
I asked my mom to talk with me. Somewhere in the conversation, my bad mood, strung next to hers, paled and faded.
Her eyes blazed, saying she didn't expect to be here. In a rent house falling down around her. Living paycheck to paycheck. No one will come when I ask. I can't make it to the corner of the street without help.
Her nose flared, her gestures sharp and angry. You want to talk about a bad mood, about disappointment? she asked. (No, not really. Not like this, I thought.)
I've had 63 years of it.
Silence hung as time plodded. She left not too long after, making her way slowly to her room.
The house creaked as I swallowed and tried to remember how to blink.
I turned over, my eyelids falling no matter how I fought. And the smell of burned rubber grew stronger.
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