Driving through the Dining Room

It seems like yesterday when my sister and I sat in Aunt Barb and Uncle Greg's kitchen, giggling while we peeked at Ms. Jackie and Mr. Greg Jr. on the loveseat in the living room as they lasciviously locked lips behind an outspread newspaper.  It wasn't long before they married and had two gigglers of their own.

It was just yesterday when I saw Greg Jr. in the far corner of Chick-Fil-A while I waited on my #1 with a peppermint shake.  His face was taut, slightly wrinkled, and listless like the obituary section of a rained-on newspaper.  

I looked at him knowingly, both of us stuck in an alternate reality.  No loveseat.  No carpet.  No home-cooked meal.  Hard booths.  Floor tiles.  Plastic trays.  Flower vases at every table - unnecessary garnishes - just like divorce papers. 

Vamos

You have a nice-looking family. Have a pleasant day.




As the ebony man with the lazuline LA Dodgers cap and dark sunglasses saunters up Saint Paul Street, I wonder if his mystique is that of one cool dude or a clairvoyant.

We've always been a nice-looking family, if not always a cohesive one.

    My silence

        Mother and sister's constant bickering and backlash due to their similarities

            Father's silence

        My silence and father's silence

                                                                                  Slammed doors

                 Raised voices

                                                                   The Paddle

                                                                                                          The Bible

    Mother said I stopped smiling when I was six

        Mother said sister and I would be heartbreakers one day

                                                  Father wasn't always quiet with the ivory women

    Mother's tears make me murderous

Sister and I will likely never marry and will kill the family line

But we've stayed together. We wait with others in the rain for the Bolt Bus. Mother stands under the shelter of sister's umbrella so the rain doesn't mingle with her tears. Father's sun-yellow hat keeps him dry. I'm wet and ready to go. But sister is the only one leaving – to Argentina. She wishes to visit as many Spanish-speaking countries as possible while I want to mold this melting pot mess of a country in my hands. We're married to the move. We go and we go and we go.

Hasta luego, little blackbird. Vaya con Dios.