“Every family has a history of heart disease” says the man on the TV.
A clash of metal as my mother drops a pot full of soup on the floor and swears.
From the radio, the Mandarin singer wails, “Do you know I am waiting for you?”
The oven open, a soft yellowish glow.
Light means heat means love.
Every family has a history of heart disease.
I read once that a man committed suicide by sticking his head into the oven,
But he put a pillow down to rest on first.
I wonder if it was comfortable.
The shape of my mother’s body has become a part of our couch. I can feel the shape with my body as I lie there; no matter what I do, it doesn’t match up.
Sometimes I lie in my bed for hours, eyes open two round quarters in the dark, then day, then dark again.
“Do you know I am waiting for you?”
The man on the TV adopts a cynical tone,
Every family has a history of heart disease.
Sometimes I look at her and her expression is so blank her face looks featureless.
We have the same eyes: dreamer eyes.
When we go into cardiac arrest, we do it as quietly as possible so no one else can hear.
Every family has a history of heart disease.
My mother sighs, wiping cracked red hands on a rag of a dish towel.
“What, you think that makes you special?”
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