Things We Cannot Say
Hold the trash bag, pick up the garbage, and put it inside. Bleach and hot water in the bucket, scrub, and wipe with a rag. Bleach will wash away anything. The kids have to see the way it could be, but not this.
How would I answer when they asked where we now lived? “The Indian Village, a mobile home community.” A trailer park. No, I couldn’t say it. It’s not true if I never say it out loud.
I thought about crashing my car into a tree yesterday. I didn’t think about the kids or my wife … just me. My boss said I was the best manager he’d ever had, and then fired me a week later.
I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been paying the bills since I was eighteen years old. I’m almost 40 and I’m scared. I yell at my wife and ignore the kids. How can I tell them? They lost everything because of me.
Dear God, my brother cried last night in his room. We miss our old house and our friends. We don’t want to go to this new school. We’re scared everyone will pick on us for being poor. We know Mom is sad, so we can’t ask her to take us back home. I want to be back in my garden room with the picket fence border I helped her paint. PS, please make daddy talk to us again.