by Heaven Angleberger
I am from my grandparent’s house. From the little swing on the front porch and the lilac trees out back. I am from my mother dropping me off for sleepovers at their house every weekend. Her picking me up on Thursday afternoons with stories of losing track of the time. I am from disappointment.
I am from arguing with my mother. From telling her that I hated her. Telling her that I wanted to go back to Grandma’s house. That night she had me fill up bags with all of my things. Three bags sat by the door filled with stuffed animals, dora figurines, and size 4T clothes. I am from hopping into the front seat of my mother’s beat up volkswagen. From her slapping my fingers away as I fly through the different channels on the radio.
I am from driving like a bat out of hell down the highway. My mother pulling into a McDonald’s parking lot. I am from my mother ordering a Big Mac and me chicken nuggets and chocolate milk. I am from asking her when we’d go to Grandma’s. From reminding her that she had promised. I am from my mother’s silence.
I am from my dad walking through the glass doors of McDonalds. From his blotchy red cheeks as he tries to pull me from my meal. I am from “It’s okay, dad. We’re going to Grandma’s.” I am from loud voices and being ushered out the restaurant. From my hands fitting into my father’s hands. I am from greeting my dad’s girlfriend in the car. From her hello’s as my dad gets in the car. I am from watching in the rearview mirror. From watching my mother disappear into nothingness. I am from mistakes and new beginnings.
Post Script Magazine. 