k.c.estari

Metro cards, Tinkerbelle, and Ice Cream

I push my metro card deep into the folds of my wallet. Back beyond the used and unused gift cards. Sighing as the random coins that fall on the floor, every time I unzip my wallet they clatter to the ground like tiny cymbals. Flopping onto my twin bed – the same mattress since I moved here. I stare up at Wonder woman and Elsa, posters that show that my room hasn't changed in years. At least I got rid of that rickety loft bed. And the white matching dressers with the gold trim. Those made my room look like the leftovers of a Victorian fairytale. I eye my painting supplies; the Tinkerbelle green walls definitely demand some touchups. A four-year-old should not be permitted to pick out paint. Years later a nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen-year-old will regret the bright purple and green walls. I should change it, paint a mural of dragons. Hurling across the sky. Or, I should slowly paint a square of visible wall space, each day, slowly covering it up. I roll over, stuffing my head under a pillow as if it is a boulder I can hide behind. I hear my name being called up the twisted, turny stairs. I’m called to make dinner tonight. But honestly, it will probably just bring about another fight. Although he's been home for hours, he's apparently incapable of cooking for others - unless it benefits himself. I have leftover pasta. Maybe I'll eat that. And ice cream. With whipped cream and caramel. Ignore the rest of the house, let it crumble. As the memories fade and the people force themselves apart.