The pain killers for my hand and my ribs knock me out pretty solid during the day. I don’t take them often, even if my hand twinges in pain and my ribs make it hard to breathe, but it’s a small price to pay to have my head about me. Anyway, I’m gathering up some stuff to show off to Dahlia. Ain’t much we can talk about really. ‘What’s your favorite movie?’ isn’t the question to ask someone who lives underwater. Plus, don’t think she could ask me, say, how I like the taste of scallops.

I pause in my sketching of a very small acorn on a tree. What did scallops taste like? Probably nasty and squish. Grody.

I make a face, and go back to my sketching. Dad’s birthday is tomorrow, so I’ll pop ‘round, give him his gift, celebrate and stuff. Hope he likes the tickets. He should, Mom said they hadn’t been since they picked up shop and moved to Oregon (and then to Illinois, and then Texas, and then Florida...). I think he’d like it. Mom’s home for a month, they can hop a plane nowadays, get back in like, two days.

I put away my sketching for today. I better rest up, take my meds during the night, it’d suck being in pain all fucking day on Dad’s birthday of all days.

----------------------------------------

I should invest in a car. Or at least start shoppin’ for a bike. Ya can’t replace your true love, though. I step out of the taxi, tipping the driver an extra five-dude wasn’t poking questions at me, and he had a little image of his family near the radio, sue me for having a heart-and opening the little gate to my parents’ house. Kind of. Army pops you around here, there, and yonder, but Dad always says we should make the house our home. We’ll be living in it anyway, he’d say, why not make ourselves comfortable?

I don’t, and really can’t, go with them if they move again, but I can at least help pack up. But, they’ve stayed here for three years. Seems pretty stable right now.

The house is pretty small. It’s white with a red roof and red door, with a set of stairs that lead up to the door. I shut the gate behind me. On the handle of the gate, it says ‘Please ring bell :)’ , although I’ve never known anyone to read our sign. The front yard used to have a mess of flowers and vines and trees, but now it only has two trees, one on each side. A stone walkway, and short trimmed grass, with a few dandelions around. Kids stomp through, messin’ things up, so Dad moved the garden to the back.

Kinda miss the look of it, though. It was more...homey.

I knock ‘shave and a haircut’ on the door, then when I jiggle the knob it ends the tapping with ‘two bits'. The door opens easily, so I know they either were expecting me-which, duh-or Dad forgot to lock the door when he went out last time.

My knocking song only amuses me, and I will never ever let it go, okay? Okay then.

“I’m here!” I call into the house, shutting the door behind me and shucking off my shoes onto the side of the doorway entrance. I hate stomping around in shoes in the house, socks is where it’s at (plus who’s to judge me when I slide in all ice skater style?? No one, that’s who!!). The door opens straight into the living room. There’s a couch with a blanket laid over the back, an armchair with a book resting in the seat with a bookmark sticking out of it. Judging by the color of the end of it, it’s the carrot one I bought him when I was eight in one of those ‘fall bazaars’.

There’s a lamp near the armchair, and a rug that’s laid out in a funny design that makes me dizzy when I look at it. Always did. Glass coffee table, and a TV on a stand that’s playing some musical judging by the dramatic sounds and someone singing loudly. I can hear something searing in a pan, and smell bok choy cookin’ away. Dad always did have a love of that weird green veggie. I shuck off my jacket, leaving me in the soft blue button up that I’d bought a while back for a date that didn’t pan out.

Dad’s voice pours out from the kitchen, “Hello, sweetie! In here, I’m making rice and-”

“Bok choy, I can smell it!” I call back with a laugh. I can hear a muffled laugh, my mother’s here as well then. Wasn’t sure if she was out or not. The tickets burn in my pocket, but I power through the want to shove them in his face like a little girl showing him my new colored picture in hopes he praises my artistic skills.

(Am I not allowed to feel really happy when I make my parents happy?? Let me have this!)

I swing into the kitchen, socked feet hitting the tiles. Cold! Cold cold cold...I prefer carpet.

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The kitchen’s the same. Same fridge with magnets holding pictures of one or all three of us, meal plans, grocery lists that never get taken down, doctor’s appointments, and such. Same cabinets and counters and stove that has a spill of pink nail polish on the edge from when we first moved in. Same island in the middle with a row of lights that lights up the kitchen even more than the main one does.

Mom sits on a stool at the island, a newspaper folded in front of her, pen held tightly as she peered at the Sudoku puzzle that’s, well, puzzling her. Heh. Puns. No one enjoys my puns, dammit.

Her hat’s off, her hair is pressed against her head tightly, a bun tightened against her neck. There’s some grey hairs here and there, and there’s wrinkles on her eyes and on her cheeks. Her knuckles are as wrinkled Granny’s is. I was always intrigued by her hands, holding them when I sat on her lap as a child, pushing and prodding at the funny skin.

Mom’s in a sweater and fuzzy pajama pants, as usual. She ticks a box. “Alice.”

Mom’s voice always carried an undercurrent to it, something that kinda poked you and said ‘you can’t lie to me’. It’s rough and deep, like a scratch on a vinyl record, but as a kid, hearing her voice sing Frank Sinatra and dancing me around the room until I fell asleep was the most soothing thing in the world.

I wave, taking a seat at the end, elbows on the counter and cupping my chin as I lean forward. “Moooom. ‘Sup? How’s the recruits? Did anyone run away yet?”

She ticks another box, her mouth quirking like she wants to smile. “You are downright horrible to them.”

“I’m not the one shoutin’ at ‘em while they run around in the mud.”

She shrugs casually, a hand coming up to drag an errant hair behind her ear. “I suppose. It builds character. But no. Not this time.”

I grin cheekily at her, then turn to look at my dad.

Gramps showed me a picture of him as a teen. He looked exactly like ‘Boy Next Door’ material. I don’t think he ever grew out of it. His hair is always curling up, even worse than mine sometimes (it’s a joke that he’s where I get my locks from), and his glasses slip down his nose constantly. He got smacked in the nose once, and it’s got a bit of a funny bump to it, and he looks like he could rip apart a piece of wood like that hunk in the hero movie, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do anything like that.

He can’t even stand to smush a spider without pleading with my mom to take it outside to ‘save its life’. Dad’s so neat. Mom calls him ‘soft’ but she smiles when she says it.

His head turns back, a grin on his face, that apron I put my handprints on at Summer camp with paint protecting him from the popping oil. “Sweetie, you always tease the poor new recruits. They’re trying!”

“Dad, the bok choy.”

He jumps, his spatula tapping at the green veggies in the bowl thing. Wok? I don’t cook. Not like Dad anyway. “It’s so wonderful that you’ve come over, sweetie, I thought we could spend a day, eat some bok choy, go out and get some apple cider!”

Mom makes another tick in a box. “You just want apple cider.”

“Is that so horrible, love?” He peeks over his shoulder and I roll my eyes with a chuckle. Apple cider is pretty good...and now I really, really want some.

But I wait, letting them chatter at each other for a bit. I had told them I broke my hand falling off the bike. Got a scolding from Dad and a curious look from Mom, but they didn’t ask anything else. I wait until Dad’s serving up the bok choy and rice, and then Mom pulls out a small cake from the fridge (she baked it, I can tell, as Dad’s a...perfectionist, and she’s made multiple swirls with purple icing that have no rhythm or rhyme to them, but Dad’s name right in the middle) and lights up a small candle and we all wish him a happy birthday.

Cake and rice and bok choy...what a combo. But look, I’m still recovering from a near death incident that I’m not exactly allowing myself to think about so comfort food is all I got left okay?

Mom gets Dad a new pair of gardening gloves, three really sharp-and popular? I guess?-knives, and an Indian cookbook. Dad’s always wanted to make curry and eat it, although he’s not too good with spices.

...wait is curry spicy?? Am I missing out on something amazing because I’ve judged it too harshly? That’s it. I need to eat some curry now.

I shake my head, happily pulling out the neat envelope to hand to Dad who of course says I shouldn’t have gotten him anything. He says this every year to both of us, and to his parents, and to Mom’s parents.

(Dad’s parents sent him some carving knives and a handmade scarf, Mom’s parents sent him a woven blanket with very beautiful colors in a waterfall pattern. We have so many woven blankets, but Mom says they’re from family and thus must be cherished. Dad’s mom always makes a scarf for everyone ‘so ye won’t catch yer death out there’ she’d chirp back at me over the phone. I mean, I gotta agree, those scarves are damn warm.)

When Dad sees the tickets, he’s super happy. He hugs me, which not unusual, but he’s kind of vibrating almost? Shaking, maybe? I dunno. “I mean, no one’s doing nothin’ this year, are we? Would be a quick trip for ya.”

Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “You do not want to attend?”

I shake my head quickly. “Nope, that’s you two’s thing, thought it could be like. Date night or something.”

Dad does that snort laugh that sounds like it kills a man and he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Oh sweetie, you’re so kind. I think a day out would be a marvelous time for us! Right, Lindiwe love?”

Mom hums, tapping the pen against her lips for a moment. “A day, you say?”

Dad nods, he kinda looks like a big kid, hah. “Yes, we haven’t had a date night in a while, have we?”

Ouch. Actually, I don’t remember them going out a lot as a kid anyway. Mom working, Dad...at home...with me.

Hm.

Mom doesn’t flinch like I thought she would’ve, or frown in that way that she thinks you’re taking a dig at her. She smiles instead, folding her paper down in front of her under her bowl that was empty. “You have a grand idea, Thomas dear. You’re right, our date nights have been sparse. Let us go and watch the beautiful flowers as they pass by, yes?”

Dad is nearly bouncing in his seat at this point. He’s gonna blast off to Mars if we ain’t careful. “Absolutely! Oh it’ll be wonderful...!”

He starts to go on and on about what happens at the parade, Mom nodding with a small smile on her face.

I’m happy Dad’s happy. What I was aimin’ for, you know. Saved up enough for it (and, he hasn’t seen yet, two plane tickets. Who’s the best? Me. I am. Without a doubt.).

We do go and get apple cider, after the excitement. There’s a café down the block that sells it all year long, and we walk to a bench near a park and sit in the quiet of it all. It’s a ritual we’ve always done. Apple cider, bench, watch the people, sometimes talkin’ but ain’t about a lot. As a kid, it was boring, I won’t lie. Now? It’s nice, even though at my own house there’s not a lot of talkin’ going on with me, alone. It’s a different quiet with people around. A soft quiet.

I sip my cider, and despite the fact that it’s not even winter yet, I can imagine a small gust of breath curling out in front of me, my hands encased in mittens, boots crunching into beautiful white snow and making small indentions in it.

It makes it all the sweeter.