feminine way of saying it was hot as hell. I could relate—with my makeup melting down my
face and all.
I walked several blocks before crossing again at the park my father used to bring me to
when I was a child. The slides the same cracked, red plastic, the swings weathered, their logos
smoothed down.
“Kick your feet,” he used to say all the time when he was teaching me how to swing.
Now I’m terrific at playground swing sets, but terrible at any kind of relationship with my
father .
He didn’t leave us. Not physically. Sometimes I wish he had, though, so the wound of
him never giving a damn about any one of us could heal—instead of being picked at like a
scavenging bird does a carcass.
Seeing my old house in the distance, I crossed one last time. Four houses down and I
finally arrived at the avocado green building with missing plum shutters. New oak trees shot up
from the dying grass. Feral cats took refuge in the azalea bushes. The neighbors stopped and
stared as I walked up to the front door with the bent-in mail slot. The door sticks because of
humidity and the shifting foundation, so I had to kick it in after unlocking it. People stare more.
I know what they’re thinking. They’re thinking, “Look at that ghost.” Of course that’s
what they’re thinking, right?
No.
They’re thinking I’m breaking in, but they never call the cops.
Upon entering the house, I gathered the pile of mail at the base of the stairs. The air
smelled stale and reminiscent of a time when life inhabited the space. That life has long gone,
though. The wallpaper peeled itself away from the walls and condensation wept from the paint.
There’s dirt and grime and cobwebs. Boxes are strewn everywhere from packing, stacked on top
of another and abandoned.
Everywhere I looked was a painful memory. The red couch I used to sleep on waiting for
Santa Claus to come and deliver the doll I wanted so badly. The Dining Room table where we
would have holiday dinners: Thanksgiving, Easter, and even a messianic Chanukah. The toys,
books, and clothes I’ve long outgrown in these past seven years. I looked and saw everything
that made up my life, everything we left behind.
There’s a mirror in the guest bathroom. It’s dusty, and a molded, artificial flower wreath
frames it unpleasantly.
The glass is broken.
I stared into the glass, and the last memory imprinted on it surface stared back at me: a
picture of a little girl with hollow eyes and cheeks. Her clavicle so sharp it should have cut
through her skin, but it never did. Her hair course and split up the shaft. Anemic and starved, the
little girl’s lips were chapped and bleeding. And she was crying because she didn’t understand
why it hurt so bad. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t eat. She didn’t understand what was
happening to her family or what would happen. She didn’t understand any of it. She was in the
fifth grade.
An Emilie Autumn song echoed through my head.
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