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his mean streak is very big.
Maybe when he gets out of
jail we can figure out how to
grow closer. That would mean
coming back from … wherever
Kyle and I end up. It would also
mean forgiveness on both sides.
Forgiveness isn’t my best thing.
Easier staying pissed. But I’m
tired of being pissed all the time.
Tired of feeling hurt by stuff that
can never be fixed because it is
an indelible part of the past.
KYLE STAYS IN THE TRUCK
While I circle around back, where
I know a certain window has a broken
lock. I left my house key in Fresno
with the rest of my meager possessions.
I shimmy up the dilapidated vinyl siding,
squeeze through the smallish opening,
drop into my old bedroom. An odd pang
of homesickness presses, weight
enough to make my eyes water. Why
am I so sad? I hate this place. Hate
what it represents—the threadbare
remnants of my childhood, few enough
happy memories woven into that cloth.
A strange foreboding chills me, and
I creep into the hallway. “Is someone
here?” I call, though I know the place
