Quiet Under All The Racket
I’m sleeping, only I’m not sleeping. I close my eyes and count the hairs on my arms. It’s hard. Shift and the hairs move around and I start over.
One hundred. Dad’s home. Mom’s locked the doors with new locks.
Glass breaks.
Now he’s cussing and kicking dents in the garbage cans.
All the noise cuts into Mom, whittles away the flesh of her face. Skeletal knuckles rap the tabletop, counting something. One hundred raps. One breath.
She’s quiet under all the racket.
Cops come with their lights, run Dad off. Cops come to the door with questions.
Everything okay?
Mom nods and wipes her face.
Fine, she says. Tired.
If there’s a problem…
Yeah.
She lights a cigarette. I get her some coffee. She holds my hand.
Is he coming back?
She shakes her head.
Not this time.