Girl, Interrupted
My family hasn't been a family since I was eight and this painful fact is brought up by my father in any conversation with me.
I live in an apartment with a suffering bathroom and an air conditioner that blows a fuse after ten minutes of use. My kitchen window stares out to an alley shared by my apartment's bordering fence and a courtyard of sorts that serves as a central shared space for several families. Parked cars, neighborhood kids playing, the smell of a weekend barbeque. It's the ultimate something you've missed out on shouted up at me.
Every conversation with my father is a burn of memories. The neighborhood existing outside my kitchen window has never mirrored my childhood and all the while I am supposed to conjure a dialogue.
I live in an apartment with a suffering bathroom and an air conditioner that blows a fuse after ten minutes of use. My kitchen window stares out to an alley shared by my apartment's bordering fence and a courtyard of sorts that serves as a central shared space for several families. Parked cars, neighborhood kids playing, the smell of a weekend barbeque. It's the ultimate something you've missed out on shouted up at me.
Every conversation with my father is a burn of memories. The neighborhood existing outside my kitchen window has never mirrored my childhood and all the while I am supposed to conjure a dialogue.