by Yash Seyedbagheri
My life is the thump of footsteps.
Thump, the graceful clickety-clack of Mother’s heels.
Thump, the definitive thump of Dad’s feet.
Thump, the sound of demands.
You’re always unhappy, Penelope. What about your boy?
Thump, Mother’s heels striking a wall.
He’s yours too. Don’t make this about him.
Thump, Dad speaking. Duties, obligations.
Thump, lilting tears.
Thump, soft, surreptitious thump, a series. The sound of someone leaving. Dad plays “Misty,” Mother’s favorite.
Thump, the sound of a father and son converging.
Your mother loved lavender.
Where did she go?
Thump, the sound of feet, diverging.
Thump, questions settling in.
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