Static Song
Dirty dishes, full laundry baskets, and oodles and noodles; That’s what single-parent households are made of.
I ate my food in silence, slurping the long, thin noodles into my mouth. I spared a glance at my brother, who was looking equally as enthusiastic. I didn’t bother to look at my Mother, I already knew what her face would look like: upset, and wrinkly, and stressed. A clang! sound hit my eardrums. The sound of my brother’s fork on the kitchen tiles. A daily ritual.
I sighed, and began drinking the broth. I was still hungry afterwards, but I didn’t dare ask for more. I knew there wasn’t any. Instead I sat in silence, waiting for my other family members to finish eating. I busied myself by studying the patterns on the ceiling, counting the tiles on the floor, and memorizing the texture on the walls. I tried to remember every detail of the kitchen, the way the drain board was askew on the counter, the way there were gnats buzzing over the dirty dishes, the roach beside the empty cereal box.
My Mother got up and left the room, and it was our cue. Finally, I stood up, and without looking at my brother, I went out into the living room/bedroom. There was a dresser and a couch and a bed and a television. The television didn’t work correctly anymore, as there was only audio, but it was still nice to hear something besides silence.
I clicked the television on and immediately muffled music filled the room. There was too much static for me to make out the words or the song, but I could still hear the cheeriness through the static. I tried to smile; my muscles were frozen.
My Mother was by the dresser, stuffing articles of clothing into plastic Thriftway bags, and my brother was gathering up his toys (all of three Hot Wheels) and shoving them into his coat pockets. I grabbed a plastic bag and began stuffing my own clothes into them, before my Mother had a chance to yell at me about it. It didn’t take long; I had only three dresses and one pair of pajamas. I grabbed my only doll, a rattled Barbie with a custom haircut, and laid it tenderly on top of my clothes.
There was a knock on the door, and I knew it was time to speed things up. I began searching under the couch and beneath coasters for hidden change. My Mother liked to hide money a lot, and she always let us keep small change. I wasn’t sure whether or not I would need it.
I wondered what was going to happen. If we would get new clothes and new shoes where we were going. I wondered if we would have three meals a day and snacks, and socks. All of my socks had long ago perished. The knock at the door became louder and more frequent, but none of us cared.
I sat down on the couch--a love seat really--and began watching the fuzz on the television like it was my favorite show. Eventually my brother and Mother sat down beside me, and the room was silent, save for the banging and the muffled singing from the television. I was still trying to figure the song.
Our doorknob began to turn, and then two figures stepped in. The door had been open the entire time, after all. We all turned to the figures, but otherwise didn’t move. They surveyed us and our home. I didn’t feel self-conscious like I usually did when people looked at me.
I turned back to the television. What was that song? It sounded familiar, as if I’d heard it before. It was trying to connect with another memory in my head. Something about that day. It was supposed to be special. I couldn’t remember.
I grabbed the plastic bags, three in all, and I stared into my Mother’s eyes. I wanted to cry, but I let my brother do it for me. I knew I would have to be strong for him. I wondered if my Mother would be alright alone, if she would be lonely, and if we would see her again.
The figures ushered my brother and I out the door, and my brother began wailing. I ruffled his brown hair like I knew my Mother always did, and then I told him to quiet down. The figures silently moved us along, eyes still scanning the room: judging. My Mother stayed seated on the couch. I looked at her with pleading eyes. My brother started crying again.
I clutched the plastic until it dug into my skin, an effort to stop myself from shaking. One of the figure took my brother to their car, but I stayed in the doorway; staring at my Mother. Her eyes were brown like ours, but her hair was more red. She had wrinkles even though she wasn’t really so old, and I could sense the sadness. I wanted to say something amazing and profound to her then, before I left, but I was too distracted my the static-y music.
The cheery music rang in my ears, and I knew I was forgetting something important. I wanted to say something special, wanted to tell her I loved her and I would see her again real soon, but I didn’t. I just walked out the front door and headed towards the car.
The car door slammed and I shuddered. The radio was on, and all of a sudden the music was clear: Feliz Navidad. Then I knew why it was special. Feliz Navidad--Merry Christmas.
I ate my food in silence, slurping the long, thin noodles into my mouth. I spared a glance at my brother, who was looking equally as enthusiastic. I didn’t bother to look at my Mother, I already knew what her face would look like: upset, and wrinkly, and stressed. A clang! sound hit my eardrums. The sound of my brother’s fork on the kitchen tiles. A daily ritual.
I sighed, and began drinking the broth. I was still hungry afterwards, but I didn’t dare ask for more. I knew there wasn’t any. Instead I sat in silence, waiting for my other family members to finish eating. I busied myself by studying the patterns on the ceiling, counting the tiles on the floor, and memorizing the texture on the walls. I tried to remember every detail of the kitchen, the way the drain board was askew on the counter, the way there were gnats buzzing over the dirty dishes, the roach beside the empty cereal box.
My Mother got up and left the room, and it was our cue. Finally, I stood up, and without looking at my brother, I went out into the living room/bedroom. There was a dresser and a couch and a bed and a television. The television didn’t work correctly anymore, as there was only audio, but it was still nice to hear something besides silence.
I clicked the television on and immediately muffled music filled the room. There was too much static for me to make out the words or the song, but I could still hear the cheeriness through the static. I tried to smile; my muscles were frozen.
My Mother was by the dresser, stuffing articles of clothing into plastic Thriftway bags, and my brother was gathering up his toys (all of three Hot Wheels) and shoving them into his coat pockets. I grabbed a plastic bag and began stuffing my own clothes into them, before my Mother had a chance to yell at me about it. It didn’t take long; I had only three dresses and one pair of pajamas. I grabbed my only doll, a rattled Barbie with a custom haircut, and laid it tenderly on top of my clothes.
There was a knock on the door, and I knew it was time to speed things up. I began searching under the couch and beneath coasters for hidden change. My Mother liked to hide money a lot, and she always let us keep small change. I wasn’t sure whether or not I would need it.
I wondered what was going to happen. If we would get new clothes and new shoes where we were going. I wondered if we would have three meals a day and snacks, and socks. All of my socks had long ago perished. The knock at the door became louder and more frequent, but none of us cared.
I sat down on the couch--a love seat really--and began watching the fuzz on the television like it was my favorite show. Eventually my brother and Mother sat down beside me, and the room was silent, save for the banging and the muffled singing from the television. I was still trying to figure the song.
Our doorknob began to turn, and then two figures stepped in. The door had been open the entire time, after all. We all turned to the figures, but otherwise didn’t move. They surveyed us and our home. I didn’t feel self-conscious like I usually did when people looked at me.
I turned back to the television. What was that song? It sounded familiar, as if I’d heard it before. It was trying to connect with another memory in my head. Something about that day. It was supposed to be special. I couldn’t remember.
I grabbed the plastic bags, three in all, and I stared into my Mother’s eyes. I wanted to cry, but I let my brother do it for me. I knew I would have to be strong for him. I wondered if my Mother would be alright alone, if she would be lonely, and if we would see her again.
The figures ushered my brother and I out the door, and my brother began wailing. I ruffled his brown hair like I knew my Mother always did, and then I told him to quiet down. The figures silently moved us along, eyes still scanning the room: judging. My Mother stayed seated on the couch. I looked at her with pleading eyes. My brother started crying again.
I clutched the plastic until it dug into my skin, an effort to stop myself from shaking. One of the figure took my brother to their car, but I stayed in the doorway; staring at my Mother. Her eyes were brown like ours, but her hair was more red. She had wrinkles even though she wasn’t really so old, and I could sense the sadness. I wanted to say something amazing and profound to her then, before I left, but I was too distracted my the static-y music.
The cheery music rang in my ears, and I knew I was forgetting something important. I wanted to say something special, wanted to tell her I loved her and I would see her again real soon, but I didn’t. I just walked out the front door and headed towards the car.
The car door slammed and I shuddered. The radio was on, and all of a sudden the music was clear: Feliz Navidad. Then I knew why it was special. Feliz Navidad--Merry Christmas.