Both hurting.
But trying to love their kids.
More than their parents did.
Mom combative, yelling.
Dad reticent, leaving.
Returning with a little less light in his eyes.
To a woman with a little less in hers.
More hurting.
More trying.
More yelling.
More leaving.
More returning.
Less,
And less,
And less
Light.
Two daughters.
One quiet, one loud.
Both strong.
Loving each other.
More than their parents did.
Hurting.
Trying.
Yelling.
Leaving.
But always returning with a little more fire in her eyes.
To a sister with a little more in hers too.
I don’t know how many people have lived here since we left years ago. The peeling gray paint is gone, and the siding isbuttery yellow. Vibrant flowers in multiple pots on the stoop and a lavender front door add a whimsical flair. The small patch of grass is green, not brown as I remember it. It’s like the colors are turned up a notch to make up for the years they were absent.
The giant maple I fell out of and broke my arm when I was six is still here. I remember biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t cry, and by the time we got to the ER, my mouth was filled with blood and hurt almost as much as my arm did. Dad told me how proud he was of me for being so brave.
He told me the same thing when our dog died when I was ten. Mom held Lola while she cried. I tasted blood.
