Spices of Life

Grandparents live on Uncle’s mantelpiece in Texas.

Pillows struck the ground in feathered chaos.

Mother sits on her olive green chair paging through her latest Victorian thriller.

The wooden door clung to life on one last hinge.

Father fingers through yesterday’s newspaper.

They fought again, but I lost track of the commotion.

The flickers of a candle in each corner suggest an unpaid bill.

The hallway was littered with shards of memories that once decorated the walls.

The kitchen served as the new stage for their theatrics.

“You never loved me!” she shouts.

Brother is sitting on the floor keeping himself preoccupied as usual.

“You slept around!”

Sister is stumped by school work, but makes no contest.

“You never understood me!”

Maid willfully works through the kitchen with a peculiar hum on her lips.

Slam. Another door left without a function.

The sound of snoring dog tickles our ears.

He did this before.

So did she.

He’ll come back.

This time she won’t.

Her sobs trace back to the beginning.

The basinet holds our newest addition knows only as ‘the quiet one.’

She remembered that Spring Fling dance.

That white dress worn for the wrong reasons.

And I, I am happy to sit and listen to them as I teach myself to be thankful.

In the distance, I hear a woman singing.