✿ ✖ ♥ ✖ ✿

My mother is inside of her closet, sitting in the dark. Zac is in there with her and they both have little squares of light entertaining them and keeping them connected to the outside world. I'm sure that if they didn't have their distractions they would both be crying.

I remember when I was a little girl, sometimes my mama would cry. After fights with my dad, usually and she'd sit and she'd cry, and I'd walk up to her and put my small hand on her and she'd hug me and I'd tell her to please stop crying and I would cry too. When I was around 6 or 7 years old, curious, I flipped through a notebook she would write in and to this day, I remember a passage that I'm sure have transformed and shifted in my head over the years but the key words were rage, anger, hands, and love. If I tried hard enough there would be a meaning that came out of my memory. But I don't want to try.

My papa sleeps. On the couch, and throughout the day. He works and he sleeps and he asks for hugs and kisses and then he gets angry and calls everyone useless and then he asks for hugs and kisses and his squinty smile is back again. When he is in a good mood he reminds me of Jackie Chan. Any other time, he is just my father. Today I tried to stay calm and aware that I couldn't say anything that would make his mood even worse. Because that would get us nowhere. It was really the first time I've thought it would be better to hold my tongue and I'm glad I did because things die down eventually.

I wish this family was better for Zac. Jorge and I are too old for much to change now. But my parents have to change for Zac.