My sister’s voice takes up more space than my father’s body. Even he has to retreat. Questions, concessions.
“What are you writing
lately?”
He’s talking to her. She’s writing a book proposal. She’s happy. She says so. This summer is awesome, she says. She’s so happy. Things are going so well. I’m happy for her. There’s no room for me here. I surrender the craft. At this table, I am not even a writer.
He would deny that. If pressed, he would say he doesn’t ask me because he knows I don’t want him to, which is true. I have nothing to complain about. I am not writing. I am not here.
This is family.
No. No, this is me. My jealousy and uncharitable thoughts deserve no breathing space. Fittingly, I can’t breathe. Not that it shows.
This is my father. Before my sister arrived, we went to the grocery store. He said I am a grudging conversationalist. That I don’t give back. That I lack the skill of letting people know I care. I spoke of my inability to connect, of how I am inaccessible because I cannot access. “I don’t understand.” He said it’s the same for everyone. I said it’s not.
My father loves me and he is right. There are basic things that I don’t know how to do. There are other things I do know how to do. I know it’s true when he says that everyone feels alone, but if my isolation is the same as everyone else’s, why does it show? He himself said it shows. He knows he can’t touch me. Everyone knows they can’t touch me. Everyone is alone, but we are all alone in different ways. This way is mine.
My sister is happy. My father is not. I live where I live and no one can come here, not even you.
Except like this. Look, I can put my words directly into your head. I’m doing it now. Maybe I have no right, but I have done it. Welcome. Stay as long as you want. There’s room for all of us here.
He’s talking to her. She’s writing a book proposal. She’s happy. She says so. This summer is awesome, she says. She’s so happy. Things are going so well. I’m happy for her. There’s no room for me here. I surrender the craft. At this table, I am not even a writer.
He would deny that. If pressed, he would say he doesn’t ask me because he knows I don’t want him to, which is true. I have nothing to complain about. I am not writing. I am not here.
This is family.
No. No, this is me. My jealousy and uncharitable thoughts deserve no breathing space. Fittingly, I can’t breathe. Not that it shows.
This is my father. Before my sister arrived, we went to the grocery store. He said I am a grudging conversationalist. That I don’t give back. That I lack the skill of letting people know I care. I spoke of my inability to connect, of how I am inaccessible because I cannot access. “I don’t understand.” He said it’s the same for everyone. I said it’s not.
My father loves me and he is right. There are basic things that I don’t know how to do. There are other things I do know how to do. I know it’s true when he says that everyone feels alone, but if my isolation is the same as everyone else’s, why does it show? He himself said it shows. He knows he can’t touch me. Everyone knows they can’t touch me. Everyone is alone, but we are all alone in different ways. This way is mine.
My sister is happy. My father is not. I live where I live and no one can come here, not even you.
Except like this. Look, I can put my words directly into your head. I’m doing it now. Maybe I have no right, but I have done it. Welcome. Stay as long as you want. There’s room for all of us here.
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