3 o'clock. I threw my backpack down and jumped on my bed, exhausted by the hard day at school of pretending to be okay when people would talk about their families or vacations or how their daddy bought them some new jewelry. They asked me what my daddy got me and I just said a new tee shirt from each time he goes away and in the past year i've gotten over 200 shirts. They smile nervously but do not respond.

4 o'clock. I pass out.

7 o'clock. I walk downstairs and notice how cold it is and I wonder if it is because it is only 30 degrees out or the fact that my body is the only one to warm the house anymore. My mother is to frail and cold to get out of bed and too tired from working all day but still finds the time to care for me. Toast is what she hands me but my mind thought this can't be toast. It was burnt and black and crumbling at the mere touch of my hands. But I smile. My mother gave me a weak grin as she watched me eat it. I eat that toast with a smile on my chard lips because I know how happy it makes her. “I'm sorry baby. I toasted it to long didn't I?” “No mom. It's perfect” I tell her because I love to see that beautiful smile form on her wine stained lips. 

8 o'clock. I sit in front of my computer, typing, typing, typing. All I know what to write about anymore is the fact that 63 percent of kids have two parents but what category do I fall under because to me you are just the sight of a plane in the sky or a man in a suit that I do not even recognize.

9 o'clock. Nothing.

10 o'clock. You are here. I listen as you walk up the steps and I hear a thud as you slam your briefcase onto the ground without a care. I see my mothers perfectly plated food set out for you because I know how much she loves you and wants to care for you. I hear you say that you are going away for another two weeks. My mother smiles and says great but I know she is dying inside. Why would it surprise us. You have been home for a total of nine days in the past two months. Papa I don't know you anymore. You aren't here. You may be my dad but I know nothing about you. We are strangers sharing the same flesh.

11 o'clock. I hear your door close and I know you are going to bed and I have to write an essay for english class on my family but when it gets to my daddy what do I say. He is the sound of footsteps on our tile floor at 530 in the morning leaving without a word. He is the sound of a slamming door as he gets home from a month long trip in Tokyo. He is the sound of the garage door opening and closing. He is the dad that I wish I knew.

  12 o'clock. They say that family is where home is but I know that is not true because you do not even feel like a part of this family anymore because you are not home. Home is not where family is. Home is where we are, without you.