LXVIII | Feeling

❦

I offer to wash the dishes.
I've never done that.

It must be because
today's an illusion.

So it doesn't feel like a chore.

But today
feels
really

good.

My parents
don't take out their phones

or sit
at opposite ends
of the living room
in silence.

They sit next to each other,
talking in low voices.

The parrot is perched
on the armrest of the sofa.

I sip a cup of coffee.

My father
makes
better coffee than Whimsical Coffee.

Today,
please
last
forever.

'Come here, Clyde.'

My mother pats the seat next to her.

I sit,
wiping my hands
on my jeans.

The parrot hops

onto my shoulder.

She hands me
the pile of papers
on the table.

'Your dad and I
'are going to fill this up today.'

We read it together,
the parrot and I.

I give it back to the woman.

She has an
apologetic
smile
on her face.

The man has one too.

It stretches to the edge
of his face

—a cheshire's smile.

Suddenly, the coffee in my mouth
tastes sour.

I want to throw up.

'Then what's the #*%& breakfast for?'

She: We thought
He: at least once
She: we should be
He: a family.

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