My parents and I lay on our backs
rubbing our distended tummies,
pre-diabetic and post-pacemaker chests
sighing and whispering "****" under our breath.
Thank God for television,
without it we would have abandoned each other years ago.
We'd have nothing left to talk about.

I sit up and rub my left arm to get the numbness out.
I do so casually, so as not to make a scene.
I should ask dad for the blood pressure machine,
but it'd lead to an argument over my health
and it's only just an anxiety attack
and I can't bear to hear any more yelling.

I force my mind to a calmer place:
the parking lot last Saturday, when we sat in the sun and I made shadow shapes over the black top with my hands.
I like doing things that draw attention to my fingers; they are the only part of me still thin.

"Look," I said, "I made a four-legged creature!"
"Yeah," you laughed, "if the creature were dying of rabies."

Just then a jet flew overhead, airshow bound.
"Look," I pointed, excited but in vain, trying to breathe life into you, "It's like our own free performance!"
"Cool," you said with a half-smile.

Your eyes gave it away; you didn't give a ****.
It made me feel childlike.
This is one of my sweetest memories of you.

I snap back to the present, rub my left arm.
The ***** creeps it's way into my throat and I swallow it back down. At least the anxiety has subsided, it gave up on me and handed itself over to sadness. Easier to deal with. I guess I'll try to sleep.