The Tension in the Air at Home
It's dead silent save for the dogs' occasional barks and noises. They are the only happy part about living in this house with mom and my brother.
Happy memories of the past haunt these walls - that chair was where dad loved to hold me as a child, the backyard was where my brothers and I would play war after watching Band of Brothers with dad in 4th grade. The sticks in our hands were our rifles. We even dug trenches out there and got dad's old uniforms muddied up. It was one of the only times I saw dad genuinely laugh.
Mom used to be happy, too. The park outside is where mom would take us every summer in that triplet stroller, giving us each a ziplock bag of cheerios to keep us busy.
Our old elementary schools stand like ancient monoliths, tributes to a simpler past. I pass by them everyday on my way to study, preparing for true adulthood.
I grasp onto all these memories before I let them go - a foul wind blows in the air at home, a noxious nuclear remnant of the falling out. The pervasive silence, memories like ashen outlines on the floors and walls of what used to be.
Once home, now a wasteland, and there is little left for me here. When tears can't be told apart by the acid rain that burns the same, it's time to leave.
Happy memories of the past haunt these walls - that chair was where dad loved to hold me as a child, the backyard was where my brothers and I would play war after watching Band of Brothers with dad in 4th grade. The sticks in our hands were our rifles. We even dug trenches out there and got dad's old uniforms muddied up. It was one of the only times I saw dad genuinely laugh.
Mom used to be happy, too. The park outside is where mom would take us every summer in that triplet stroller, giving us each a ziplock bag of cheerios to keep us busy.
Our old elementary schools stand like ancient monoliths, tributes to a simpler past. I pass by them everyday on my way to study, preparing for true adulthood.
I grasp onto all these memories before I let them go - a foul wind blows in the air at home, a noxious nuclear remnant of the falling out. The pervasive silence, memories like ashen outlines on the floors and walls of what used to be.
Once home, now a wasteland, and there is little left for me here. When tears can't be told apart by the acid rain that burns the same, it's time to leave.
22-25, M
