I gain consciousness as a sentient human being
in a shitty motel room somewhere in the greater St. Louis area.
The music video for The Macarena is playing
on the small television in the double bed room, which
places this memory somewhere in the early to mid 90’s.
I am four or five, and my sister is here with me.
The door is open, and the sunlight and summer
warmth waft inside to greet me, bringing with it
the familiar scent of my dad’s Marlboro Reds.
My most prized possession while I am living in my
father’s world—which differs staggeringly from that
of my mother’s—is a peeling red photo album, the kind
they used to make with the adhesive pages covered
in a clear film. I spend my hours making drawings and
carefully fastening them within. My dad once bought me
a pack of Big League Chew bubble gum, whose package
graces my collection as well. I like to remember the things
he buys me.
In the wintertime he wears an old brown leather
jacket, and the inside is a map. I like to pretend that he’s been
to all of the places inside and is some kind of magical worldly
traveler, which would explain why sometimes I don’t see him
for awhile. He lets me do things my mother never does, like
get Slurpees when he takes me to 7 Eleven late at night.
He always runs into his friends there. Once, I was woken up
by a man knocking on his apartment door. He was wearing
a white suit, which I thought was very fancy. He crouched down
to introduce himself and ask me my name. He told me
he had a daughter my age named Fox. I did not like his cologne,
and I thought Fox was a weird name for a kid.
I am six. It is early in the morning, and the world is covered in
snow. My father is driving me to school, but his car breaks down.
It has a hole in the bottom and I can see the road speeding beneath
my feet when we drive. We walk the last mile or so, my blue
Winnie The Pooh backpack slung casually over his shoulder
as I do my best to walk within his footprints so my socks won’t get
too wet.
I am seven. I make my dad a beaded bracelet, which I’m really good at.
It is rainbow, of course, because he deserves the coolest.
We wears it all the time and never takes it off. One day, I notice
he isn’t wearing it, and it is instead looped around his gear shift.
Bereaved, I ask him why he took it off. He tells me he’s sick of
guys at work asking him out. I don’t understand what he means.
I am eight. My sister is living in an apartment with our dad
on Enright. My mom hates us staying there, but I don’t mind
that all his furniture is made of red milk crates and plywood.
He sleeps in a hammock, I sleep in a papasan. One afternoon,
he lets me rip up and throw away all his cigarettes.
But he buys more the next day.
I am nine. My father picks me up from school. He has a long nail
sticking out of his foot from an accident at work.
There is blood all over his floor mat, and I beg him
to go to the hospital. Instead he drives us to Great Grandpa’s
where he is living now. Great Grandpa loves Walker Texas Ranger
and God. He paints pictures of trains all the time, because he used to be a bad guy
who robbed banks and stuff, but then he had a dream where God spoke to him
and told him to get onto the train before it was too late.
He did, and woke up a changed man. When we get inside, Great Grandpa
speaks in tongues over my dad’s foot as he yanks the nail out with
a bloody rag and rips his soggy work boot off. I do not understand
why he didn’t just go to the doctor.
I am ten. We all got out of school this morning because two planes
crashed into two buildings in New York. All of the adults are crying.
My dad picks me up. I ask him why this happened, and he tells me
that there are some really ate up people in the world. He lights incense
in his apartment and spends a lot of time in the bathroom. I just want
to watch Pokemon like I always do, but the only thing on TV is videos
of planes crashing and crashing and crashing into buildings.
I do not understand why my dad spends so much time in the bathroom.
I am eleven. My dad is living at my Nana’s house, which I really like, because
it's very nice and clean and she cooks really good food. I’m staying here all weekend.
My dad has third degree burns all down his legs. I ask him what happened,
and he said he spilled boiling water while he was cooking. I carefully remove
his bandages, apply the ointment, and redress them twice a day like the doctor
told him to. I don’t understand how he got burned so bad because he doesn’t cook.
Cierra Lowe-Price 2023