Start with my father, a hardened man; I presume he took the form of the floor he slept on while in prison. He’s the mere age of 36, but his hedonistic youth took its toll on him - especially around the creases of his eyes, which were most visible when he’d grin while summarizing the SNL skit he watched at the bar the night before. More recently, the grin would receive more acclaim due to his plunder of war that took the shape of a missing tooth. He would take the 9-7, and I the 4-8, associating only within the hours between.
My mother I’d only see in the mornings, 6:30, to be exact. She would sit outside, alone on the wicker black chair, huffing out as much smoke as she could before I would wake Jacob for school. She was always tired, her eyes weary and dull like the creamer that would curdle in the coffee she’d forgotten on the table. I would dress Jacob and then myself. We’d tell her goodbye, and she’d always ask if my legs were cold.
My brother is 6 years older than my sister was. He resembles the January trees in our yard: thin and his skin splotchy from his eczema. He cannot form coherent sentences, but I know that his rambles root from a genius he cannot yet convey.
And I’ll be on call.