Weekly Writing Challenge: Lunch Post
He makes sure he lowers his holler to gritty yell whenever I’m home. He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened last time.
My lunch: a cup of semi-cold water.
Activity: Procrastination with a plethora of blogging.
I told myself a month ago, and reminded myself last week, that I would study endlessly in preparation for this upcoming semester. Yet here I am, putting an end to studying before it even began.
It’s not entirely my fault, though. I can’t accomplish much when I’m home. My bedroom is about as private as a coffee shop, and my mother/second manager loves to put me to work, whether it be raking leaves or hanging sticky hooks on the bathroom wall.
That’s not all that distracts me.
My father returned home from dialysis not too long ago. He began his usual routine: a zombie-walk to his bedroom, the slamming of his car keys on the end-table, the grunts of woe and despair as he slips off his coat, etc etc. I hear him walk down the hall into the kitchen and slump into his seat at the table. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else. If he sits in the den, he’s forced to watch television, and that just takes too much effort. If he lays in bed, he’ll eventually have to climb back out, and that too takes too much effort. So he chooses the kitchen.
My mother, who also acts as his know-it-all nurse, manager, and mother, takes his gesture as his unspoken desire to eat. “You have to eat,” she reprimands. “You need energy!”
But my dad does not want to eat. It takes too much effort. Instead, he conjures what little willpower he has left and yells back, “I do NOT want to eat!”
It seems as if once couples grow older together, their arguments become centered around the dumbest and most unimportant things.
Thus, the yelling commences. Now, although the topic of their argument is dumb, I do not make the mistake of underestimating the furor behind the argument itself. Not too long ago, in the midst of an argument about whether or not my father was allowed to move his XBOX into the den, my father backed my mother into a corner and hit her. This resulted in a fist-fight between my father and myself, and a permanent scar on our relationship. Now, whenever they argue, I always prepare for the worst.
He doesn’t yell too loud, because he does not want me to hear. But my hearing’s just fine. If I saw his face now, his brow would be scrunched and his teeth would be grinding as his words bit the air. I can tell by his tone that things may escalate, so I put my socks on because I feel weaker barefoot. I feel more than I hear him pound his fist on the kitchen table. My mother takes this as a sign to give up, so she leaves the kitchen in a huff.
And then it’s over. The only time of my life that I was happy that all the build-up was anti-climactic.
I took my socks back off, and took another sip of my lunch.