I’m awake now, I’m sure. My dad, he must be too. Out on the living room couch, he smokes his morning Camels. The smell reaches my room, through under the door, like a thief. Reminds me of car exhaust on the trips he’d take us throughout the country. My mother always just sat there, wherever we were, always more aloof in my memory. Quiet. Should I open the window, this is obnoxious! My thin limbs creep from out my covers and I quickly realize that it’s still very much winter; so I must be trapped with this strange scent of nostalgia! Years have gone from those trips though. He only stays here with my sister, when mum’s out of town. She’s probably with her boyfriend. Spending all the money we have on needless clothes, mediocre restaurants claiming to have better food than the other right down the street. There were these mostly dormant wooden hotels he’d have us stay in, usually for a couple days. Birds chirped; they tried to sing through the morning. My sister downturned and drooling slept beside me silently. So I snuck out the room, mounting the balcony. Away with my unrest....Morning glowed through the aging fall trees, as I began to feed these tiny birds leftover wonder bread. I rubbed it to crumbs. Wings balked then fluttered, until they flew back to their temporary homes, wherever they were. And those were the times of the day I felt most important. Starting long car rides back, I’d peer out windows for them, wondering their patterns of migration. Were they to leave this place? Go south where the warm would be? Sorry, I was trailing off…But this is how I’ve begun every day this week; he’s been here every day this week. My aching body and I struggle to get out of bed, I drowse around, find my panties and slip them on. I’ll write in my notebooks. Secretly draw my sister figures with funny poems on month-old napkins until he’s gone. I’ll listen to records, and bide my time. Maybe I’ll dust my room; allergies have been flaring. I hate the way the smell of his shit lingers in the bathroom, even after it’s been flushed. I love him I suppose, but I’m not obligated to like him, am I? Gosh, winter is pretty; the earth looks so vulnerable and bare outside. Cohen spins and spin on vinyl, his voice sounds until fading to mild scratches…Left with the silence of his snoring I sneak out the room. My father glances at me from the sofa, and reminds me I should pick us up smokes, and cheap dinner…Sighing, I leave the house, just a thin coat over me. Heading towards a red light, I see a boy limping slightly across the street. He holds something in his hands; he is slow and cautious. We come closer. Peeking out of his hand is just the head of a tiny sparrow. It gives a mild chirp. But it has no flutter. Memories of morning pervade my senses again. Again I am briefly arrested, without the need for cigarette smoke. However this time, I have more begun my urge to walk away.
