(no subject)
she's gone and my father braids my hair. i feel her absence in my crookedly parted hair, my lopsided ponytail. my father feels her absence in his fumbling fingers, in the foreign landscape of my hair.
she returns and the house is quiet. my father walks like a silent statue. we watch them move and not touch each other. there are rules here. the only sound is the television, the static of a burning pan.
she wakes up and the white tiles are gleaming. she pats her face with a brush, beige over the purple. she is leaning into the mirror and looking at herself. i am looking at her from behind the doorway. my mother begins to sing a hymn, one about faith and grace.
she returns and the house is quiet. my father walks like a silent statue. we watch them move and not touch each other. there are rules here. the only sound is the television, the static of a burning pan.
she wakes up and the white tiles are gleaming. she pats her face with a brush, beige over the purple. she is leaning into the mirror and looking at herself. i am looking at her from behind the doorway. my mother begins to sing a hymn, one about faith and grace.