The boy ate breakfast as normal, with the runny eggs and the undercooked bacon and the burnt toast and the imitation orange juice that had more sugar than citrus, but advertised itself as healthy and full of the vitamins that young, growing children needed. Dad had left for work after setting down the plate, as if in one fluid motion from stovetop to table to hallway, out the door, in the car, and down the block before the boy had time to try and spread the imitation butter on the toast without getting the blackened crumbs all over the table and before the dog put her head on his lap, desperate for the bacon, despite its status as almost living pig. Breakfast was accompanied by cartoons, before the bus to school would arrive, although always late, but he hated to bank on that because if it were ever on time and he missed it, he’d have no way of getting to school and that would only put unnecessary stress on Dad, who’d grayed so much in the last few months since she died, even though they knew it was going to happen and Dad had time to prepare, but didn’t and the boy did everything he could to keep Dad happy and even though he got rides to soccer practice when Dad was too sad to leave the couch, or made sure to get good grades and let the teachers know that he would never cause them problems because Dad couldn’t handle a cry for help. That couch, which once held the whole family in its arms was now a bachelor pad because Dad couldn’t sleep upstairs without her. Happy smiling faces were now only on the walls and the games of catch were memories and the pancakes with blueberries from the farm down the old dirt road behind the house were only found in poor imitation at the Denny’s that they went to when Dad had gotten home late from work. This is a man, the boy thought.
Untitled
Untitled
Untitled
The boy ate breakfast as normal, with the runny eggs and the undercooked bacon and the burnt toast and the imitation orange juice that had more sugar than citrus, but advertised itself as healthy and full of the vitamins that young, growing children needed. Dad had left for work after setting down the plate, as if in one fluid motion from stovetop to table to hallway, out the door, in the car, and down the block before the boy had time to try and spread the imitation butter on the toast without getting the blackened crumbs all over the table and before the dog put her head on his lap, desperate for the bacon, despite its status as almost living pig. Breakfast was accompanied by cartoons, before the bus to school would arrive, although always late, but he hated to bank on that because if it were ever on time and he missed it, he’d have no way of getting to school and that would only put unnecessary stress on Dad, who’d grayed so much in the last few months since she died, even though they knew it was going to happen and Dad had time to prepare, but didn’t and the boy did everything he could to keep Dad happy and even though he got rides to soccer practice when Dad was too sad to leave the couch, or made sure to get good grades and let the teachers know that he would never cause them problems because Dad couldn’t handle a cry for help. That couch, which once held the whole family in its arms was now a bachelor pad because Dad couldn’t sleep upstairs without her. Happy smiling faces were now only on the walls and the games of catch were memories and the pancakes with blueberries from the farm down the old dirt road behind the house were only found in poor imitation at the Denny’s that they went to when Dad had gotten home late from work. This is a man, the boy thought.