Barefooted

On a Sunday morning, you’re called over to the living room. Your father’s standing with the grey suitcase he carries after long fights with mother. He always yells he’s never returning and walks out. Before, you would cry. Now, you know it’s a habit of his and that he’ll come back the following evening and unpack. But today, he doesn’t shout. He only strokes your face, hugging your eyes. He drags himself out the door and looks back at you. Nothing needs to be said.

You permanently carry this loss. In dreams, you create distance for protection. In the bathtub, a man is standing. He shows you how to dance with his arms spread as if he’s holding someone. You examine his short, slow steps. He smiles as he asks you to join, but you freeze. Water reaches just below his knees and pours onto the tiles. His face changes. He’s broken. He sits in the tub and signals for you to leave. But you remain and watch him bury his head in the water.

In bed, you feel someone tug on your arm. Your eyes are ha…