He’s not coming home.
But I remember when he would. Oh, do I remember. I remember that bad – horrible, even – day that wouldn’t end. I came home in pain, dripping with my own misunderstanding of the way I was functioning. It was beginning. And it hurt. Going home was both my highlight – finally a sanctuary – and my downfall – on goes the mask to conceal the prospect of unanswerable questions.
No surprise the house was empty. I hid in the bathroom. The bathroom had always been my favorite hide-out room. If nothing else, no boys could follow me. It was safe. I heard the backdoor open. Footsteps. My name. Of course he knows me only too well that he pushed against the door until I was squished against the wall, head-down to shield my tear-stained face from his concerned gaze.
“What’s wrong, kiddo?”
A muffled nothing.
“Liar.” He always could make me smile. Especially when I didn’t want to.
Next thing I knew he was telling me to follow him. As usual I refused, but only for a moment. I never could quite resist following him – in his footsteps – to whatever adventure was next. In his room he told me to sit in his special chair, conformed with his body’s shape and discolored from years of spilled soda and food residue. All the same, comfortable.
Suddenly, his stereo began singing Avril Lavigne as he danced around like the big monkey he is. And he sang. And I smiled. And he paused, turned to me, and said, “I cannot believe this. I’m a 218-lb, straight, grown man bouncing around my bedroom singing ‘Girlfriend’. See what you make me do!”
That was one of my favorite days. Of course, there are too many to count. But I suppose I should start because, well…
He’s not coming back.