The Writer Talks About Her Family

Really, some people are absolutely bereft of manners. He fell asleep again, and I had to drag him back to the couch. His fever hasn’t fallen yet, and I’m guessing he won’t wake up for a long time.

I’m writing…yet again. I don’t know how I can keep so calm when a potential convict is sleeping soundly on my sofa.

When the house is quiet (when is it noisy?) I feel at peace. Tranquil.

Sometimes, I find myself wanting to hear the familiar sound of father hobbling along. I could always tell who it was by their footsteps.

Mama’s walking was silent and evenly paced. Father has a limp from a shrapnel that’s in his leg because of a war wound. Grandma always shuffled along in tiny steps. It was easy to discern them, really.

My parents had me quite late…my father was forty two when I was born.

I think they wanted to wait for the war to die down. The Vietnam war, that is.

Father gets a faraway look in his eyes when he speaks about it.

And that’s if he even talks about it at all.

View this story's 2 comments.