Your mom’s boyfriend is a groaner. His sighs sound like an avalanche heaving down the side of a mountain. The groans reverberate through the walls accompanying every activity from browsing the fridge to movie nights. He has neck, teeth, and knee problems from working on a boatyard. Also, he plays the bongos when he’s happy.
I see my dad twice a year. The last time I saw him feels like the kind of memory one associates with a photo—stagnant, an anecdote. We sat in a coffee shop in Boston at a small round table for an hour, sipping on coffee. It was brief. This time, jumping out of his car, he greeted me with a tight, bony hug at the North Carolina airport.
My pinterest boards were filled with models and people with curly bobs, the smiles on their faces convinced me that their hair was the root of their happiness. I needed a chop.
Pulling into the lot, the shadow of the massive warehouse towered over Clara’s pickup truck. Near their car, a mother and her young daughter were rolling up their sleeves and putting on plastic gloves. At another car, a group of 20-somethings had the trunk down and laid out their finds.