—
Later, though, when they made it home (after several stops to ogle), our parents were caught in the kitchen. They were down on the worn-out floor, and sitting just barely upright.
Our father was against the cupboards.
His eyes were a wasted blue.
Our mother had thrown up—it was a horrible mess—and now she slept back against him; Michael Dunbar sat only staring.
The two boys, they stood.
Their erections suddenly deserted them; dismantled, deep in their pants.
Henry called out, he reacted, and he was suddenly quite responsible. “Tommy? You home? Don’t come in here!” as they watched our mother’s fragility—and Miss January, rolled up, between them.
That smile, her perfect furniture.
It hurt now to even think of her.
Miss January was just so…healthy.
* * *
—
Early autumn it had to happen; there was a destined afternoon.
Rory was a month into high school.
Clay was ten years old.
Her hair had grown back, a strange and brighter yellow, but the rest of her was going-and-gone.
Our parents went out without us knowing.
It was a small cream building near a shopping mall.
The smell of doughnuts from the window.
A cavalry of medical machines, and they were cold and grey but burning, and the cancerous face of the surgeon.
“Please,” he said, “sit down.”
He said aggressive at least eight times.
So ruthless in the delivery.
* * *
—
It was evening when they returned, and we all came out to meet them. We always helped bring shopping in, but that night there was n
othing more. There were pigeons on the power lines. They were coo-less, watching on.
Michael Dunbar stayed at the car, leaning down, his hands on the warmth of the hood, while Penny stood behind him, her palm against his spine. In the smoothing, darkening light, her hair was like straw, all tied and tidied back.
As we watched them, none of us asked.