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is definitely not happy. His scowl
creases his face, makes him look
a decade older than his fifty-seven
years. I wave to draw his attention.
When he sees me, his expression
softens, but only a modicum.
Like from “ready to kick someone’s
ass” to “maybe I’ll just mess him up
a little.” I’d like to say I’ve never
seen him like this before, but why
lie? Dad possesses a temper,
and patience isn’t his best thing.
Mom says I take after him that way.
I have no idea what she means.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls even.
“What’s going on?” Mom chugs
up after him, and I add, “Hi, Mom.
Sorry I missed breakfast.”
On Saturdays, if Mom is home
instead of book touring, she tries
to make breakfast special. There
was a time when I wouldn’t miss one.
Mom smiles, and in kind of a polar
opposite way to Dad, the crinkles
around her eyes plump up. No prob.
Sometimes sleep trumps food.
Dad snorts impatiently. We’re
late. “Circumstances beyond
our control” and all. Can we talk
at dinner? Still pissy. Poor Mom.
