thanksgiving

the color of the inside of my house is yellow. in every photograph, and in every memory, the color is yellow. it's the warmest feeling i have. it's the home of my mother. and my father. brother and me. i can listen to the way the stairs creek as someone is coming down the steps and know who they are. my father is fast. my brother is solid. my mother is light and slow. that is the sound of my family walking down our steps. we've yelled too. and cried and screamed. we've gone on cooking strikes, we've stormed away, we've all left the dinner table angry. on the wonder years, kevin says that some battles are fought for love.

my dad gives me advice on our walk. he suggests we walk past the house on north euclid that we lived in until i was four. we complain about the sound of the 71A driving past our duplex. we find the window of my old bedroom. my dad retells the story of the time there was a cicada bug stuck outside of my window and it made me so scared i couldn't sleep the whole summer.

my brother and i make fun of ourselves for not being married, or having kids, or having real jobs.

at dinner, i whisper to my mother, out of everyone i know - you are the only person who i'd want to be my mom.
she whispers in my ear, darling, out of everyone i know - you are the only person i know who i'd want to be my daughter.