I leisurely move into the car. The voiceless water streams down my nose, and then falls with no plink. The car stutters forward and turns briskly, but I clench every part to not move with it. 

My father steers onto the dull, repetitive road, a green belt, faceless like an overcast sky. I fight to remain tight-lipped, preparing for the jarring words that come abruptly. “The two hardest things in life: patience and doing the right thing.” 

My throat is sealed and my eyes are searing, scarlet. The lump vanishes when I whisper, “I know” —the words I’ve used perpetually. I am hungry for air, but once the puffing ceases, I settle. 

We turn onto my sweet-sounding street, children gentle with mother nature. I desire to be in their worriless shoes, unconcerned about the next job. Oh no, his voice comes up once more: “You are doing the right thing, but sometimes you have to work a little harder than others. Your time will come, but stay patient.” 

It is soothing like the still, numbing river or the ancient hum of an elder. The river that once ran cool, is now frozen with gloom. My stomach and the driveway quiver in sync, waiting for the next breaking point. 

I leisurely move into the house. I am fearful of the next disheartening words that will come from her, mutter. She is soft, silent, serene, sage; the tender base of home. 

All the words turn to stone and sink to the bottom.

She leisurely walks over to me. My second self, Mady. She extends her jaw as if trying to speak, and at once her voice drowns out in thunderous cheers. Her weary weight drapes over my sturdy shoulders and her miserable sweat seeps through the shirts onto my bone-dry skin. 

Parked center in the court, we put the world on pause. Her spinning mind needed consolation. My comforting chime, “This loss doesn’t phase you. You did everything in your power. You are strong and you move on.” 

The tension was gone.