A walk in the park

                I hate these tacky rooms. The chairs are too big, and they are only big because they are clothed with layers of Indian carpets. I don’t know why Miranda invites me here if she knows it looks like this. I invite her out, because out is better. Away we go. I think Miranda may be looking off a bit too much today. Is she even here? I blink and she’s still here. Good. I was hoping she would be here. The park is always nice around this time. I usually ask her to come with me to the park around this time. Around this time is perfect—that is, around 4 A.M. Her eyes have bags under them, and the white is peppered with red. Has she been crying? Sometimes I think these walks could be better alone, but then I step in something, and I realize I would HATE to lack the proper company to complain to about this.  Again I look over, and she seems to be lagging behind a bit. “MAN ALIVE!” I shout, and she startles back to life. I love that. Her hair jumps and she’s back with me. Like a doll with strings connected to my words. Well, I don’t like the thought of words being stringy, so I should probably say something to her to turn my mind. “Pleasant day indeed!” We reach the marker in the mud, and I lead us back.

                You sonofabitch! You really do think that you can go on screaming at me, leading me around, telling me what to do, you son, of, a , bitch. This is the last day.

                Did you know your mother called? Did you know she knows about the phone flying through the air crashing into the wall with noise enough to wake the neighbors? You know she knows you’re drinking again. Did you know she knows about the letters found in your drawer? What about my face? Did you know she knew? You love me. I think you do. Did you tell me once that you thought about killing yourself? I wish I would have said something. “Man Alive,” you like to say when you’re thinking about jabbing a dog, or anything close enough that moves. Your steps are too fast, and we’re already back at the entrance. You’d like to leave me here, and I’d like to stay, but today you’re too slow, and getting slower each time. I think you’ll probably notice eventually, but I won’t let you know--Today is the last day. Your breathing gets labored and I think about what’s going to happen to you. It’s a recurring thought—your cold lips, ashen skin, deep wrinkles. You shouldn’t have screamed so much, Dad.