Swim

The heavy, red curtains that the landlord left at your house block all light from the street and also block the fresh air. So I'm awake, lying on top of the covers, listening to people fight in the apartment complex across the street. My mom would tell me to call the police.  She'd also hate these drapes.

The screaming gets louder. A door slams. I pull back the cloth and take a breath of cold air. A man stocks down concrete stairs. He paces on the street and stocks back up. The front door opens and slams and opens and slams. He sweeps up and down the stairs but I don't make any calls.

I remember this morning. My parents and sister left our Best Western hotel room before I got up. I slept on my side,  in the bed near the bathroom,  and he slept in the bed near the door, flat on his stomach -- like babies do. 

 I called my sister when I woke up. She came up from breakfast and gently drew open the curtains. The sun streamed in and poured over his face. He scrunched and yawned. She lay next to him and he opened his eyes. He babbled and flopped onto her.

She swung him up by the waist into her arms and cooed---her face as relaxed and soft as I had ever seen it.

In the thick air of your bedroom, I curl out of your bed and brush your legs. You tug at my hand.

I didn't make this to share it.




They have a new album coming out this week and I'm very glad.