Bliss

I remember the glass paneled door of that house
gridded off by cheap, cracking wood bars,
the coffee stained carpet, edges chewed frizzy by rats.

I remember my dog, eight weeks old,
blurry and black as she was thrown against that door
and fell,
quivering and jumpy, to the floor.
She was too young, untrained, but
that didn’t matter to my father.
The carpet was ruined, he said,
no fixing it now, she knew what she was doing.

So she fell to that blue-patterned carpet,
lost in the dark of my father looming above,
still red in the face, still
shaking a fist.
I watched from behind, wide
unblinking eyes, sister by my side, back
against a wall.
Neither able to understand why
he’d do this to one so young.

So we’re sitting on this new wooden bench
outside the Trinity Christian lower school,
and Charis is talking to me about Michael Amico.
We’re skipping Mrs. Waller’s second floor study hall,
and she’s going on now about his passion for life,
his goals, aspirations.
He’s a star soccer player, you know,
president of the student government, too,
one of Charis’ closest friends.
And as of right now, the only openly gay kid in K-12.
Charis is a lover of people, and she loves talking about them
to other people, and today
she’s talking about Michael Declan Amico.
It’s been maybe ten minutes
and I hear her sigh then brush that away
with a lighthearted laugh, leaning in.
“I hope he finds a nice girl to marry.”

This silence seems to be fraying the string between us
from my clenched fist to her open heart
so I cough out a laugh,
see that Charis is oblivious to the danger,
and I let it fall, unsure
of what to do next.
Before I say something I wouldn’t regret,
we’re being ushered off the
bench by some assistant who saw
us through her window
playing hooky.