I make sure everything is kept clean, the laundry is done, and dinner is on the table before my dad gets home from whatever job he is doing. Since my mom died I’ve sort of taken her place when it comes to the household chores. Grabbing my bag, I head downstairs knowing the mess my dad made will still be there. I miss when I looked in the mirror and I only saw the scar. I wipe at the tear that’s somehow escaped. I spent the first year after she died wishing for so many things. But all the wishing in the world can’t turn back the clock. Reaching out, I touch the mirror, wishing it was my mother. We almost look like twins in pictures of us at the same age. From my white-blonde hair, to my too-big blue eyes that take over my face, to my front teeth that are a little bigger than the rest, and my small upturned nose. When I was unpacking boxes last night I pulled out a photo album of my parents when they were younger. Now when I look into the mirror, the scar isn’t the first thing I see. Nothing has been the same since that day. My mom might have died in the car, but she dragged my father with her into the grave. It’s the bitter reminder of the day that changed my world. The scar is all I ever see when I look in the mirror. I make sure the scar by my ear is hidden as much as possible, then I look myself over, double-checking everything. Looking in the mirror, I part my hair a little to the side so more falls to the right, before putting in a small clip to hold it in place. The more layers I can put on, the better. It’s early January, and the Minnesota winter is raging. They’re soft and warm and will help with the chill on my mile-long walk to school. I go with a short button-up blue jean dress with wool leggings underneath. I pull myself from the bed and get ready for school. When I finally hear the front door slam closed, all my muscles release, and an all-too-familiar tension within me relaxes. I desperately don’t want that change to come. I can feel it deep inside me, like he’s waiting for me to do something wrong so he can strike out.īut I always make sure there isn’t a reason. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, but I can see it. I’m constantly walking around on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But recently his anger has been rising and flying my way. Dad used to be able to drown his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle and pretend I didn’t exist. Things have been getting unstable lately, and it’s only getting worse. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I slowly sit up and listen for his movements. It wasn’t always like this, but it is now.
Dad’s always coming off a weekend bender, because alcohol seems to be my father’s reason for living. I can only hope he doesn’t call out my name. In 2020, the Last American to Receive a Civil War Pension has DiedĪ sound of something shattering in the kitchen followed by a string of curses causes me to hold my breath.
0 kommentar(er)
