Samoa granola bars at the entrance to the shower. It’s time to take my pants off and get in. My dick flopping around beneath her butt. My niece having a mole in her crack.

I spent the first three months of her life trying to scrub it off, says my mom. Just like my sister with the one on her vagina.

Our baby doesn’t have anything like that. Our baby is clean as a whistle. Not a spot on her. That’s not normal. It’s not what I’d expect. Not with my wife and me. I’d expect something like a cheetah baby. My coworker, the teenager, asking me if I’ve already got dad back because I am limping and hunched over.

I pulled my back. It’s not what I’d call dad back. I’d say dad backs are moley and hairy. I don’t have a hairy back. I pulled it moving boxes in the back. Making it so that the press books are more easily inventoriable. The area is right next to the accountant’s desk. We had a long conversation because I was working back there. It took place after hours. She told me right around after six that I’d better leave. I didn’t know that it was because I was going to get enmeshed in a conversation that would later have me being complimented on my candor.

She handed me a post-it with the amount of money that I was costing the shop in insurance. Myself, my wife, and the baby. I’m a heavy burden. By carrying me, the shop is carrying three. That’s why I can’t be the one to go. No matter if I am the least necessary member of the crew, you don’t throw a whole family overboard. Not in their first year of life. Their first couple of months. I know that they are not monsters.

The mural on the wall says “fire your bosses.” It’s all that I can think about, shoegazing, pulling my Doc Martins out of storage.

It has been raining for the last few days. My right hip hurts. So does my wife’s. I asked her why it hurt in front of my mom, and my mom said she just gave birth. My wife asked me why mine hurt, and I told her that it was probably empathy.

We got in another fight. It’s like, every Sunday this happens. At least on the Sundays before we go over to my parents. This time, however, I didn’t fudge the whole thing up. We went down south and saw them. They made mention of how it’s been a month, and they’re right. If we don’t see them on their week, then that means that we didn’t see them the week before, and we won’t see them the week after, so it’s four weeks until we see them when we miss one week.

A baby can change so much in that amount of time. When they’re this age… It’s incredible. They’ve got my sister’s baby living with them, and when I told them that we went and saw “It”, my dad was quickly like, how did you do that? Did you leave the baby home, or what? I told him that we had my wife’s mom watch her. You could tell that he was sad about that. He probably spent the most time with the baby tonight. She slept on him for over an hour. She’s not always that sleepy. It was probably sensory overload.

My mother-in-law. That’s what I meant to say. I’ve got to be careful. These are these people’s names I’m talking about. Their titles are enough. You can imprint your own images on top of my words. My wife. My mother. My mother-in-law. My daughter. And my dog.

I am myself, and I’m not even bibles. What are bibles? What is bibles? Who is bibles? I am me. I am myself.

I’ve got to sign up for a life insurance policy, but I don’t know which one to choose. I’ve also got to get one for my wife. My dad says just enough to bury her.

You want to kill mom, I ask.

No, says my dad. I just need enough money in the account so that I can pay her funeral expenses in the case of her death.

We each and all have our own types of agents. There are many cases packed into our moments. And there is no body crammed into the coffin.

I made a call, but it was not received, and I did not leave a message. Not connecting makes it such that the call never even happened. I’m not covered, and I can’t bury my wife, your mother, beautiful, Musette.


Where thinketh that you came from?

How is it that you could wake up so cute?

Look at me

I have got the talking stick.

I have got the beating rod.

I am the sun of your solar system.

I am the father.

I get lectures from the mother, because she takes care of the daughter.

the wife is the mother of my child.

I am the father and the son.

I am the father.

I have learned to let go of my father

My boss.

To not see these figures as the final authority.

I am the father

and I am the son.

It’s all about whose roof you live under.

That’s why I’m always the son. I’m fighting against tyranny, holding the rain above my head, the snow, the cold, and the dark of the park.

Holding my hands up to the holes in the hull.

Not neglecting my vision for the life raft that has always been slated to sustain myself and my family while soaring through my dreams, above the rocky bottom always banging at my endurance, wearing me out, and threatening to wash me up, and leave me for dead.

I’m through with being bitter. Being bitter is for failures. There are not a lot of ways to fail at writing, but being a little bitch about everything is one of the top ways.

I’ve got to be a man. I am a dad. There are those who are younger than me suffering in search of a wife. I’m past that. I’m beyond it, and I’m above it. I’m a wreck. I’ve abandoned all of my friends and my audience. My family thinks that I’m a disaster. My dad won’t stop pestering me about when we’re going to get the baby blessed. The more he loves her, the more he wants it done. At least he doesn’t have maggots growing between his toes. But I ate way too much sugar. French toast, scones, compote, buttermilk syrup. I’m going blind. The baby is screaming from the other room. Musette and I got in a fight before we went over to my parents, but we both pushed through and made it over there. Didn’t talk the whole drive. I got her Del Taco. Two hard shells in a soft shell, glued together with cheese. Not as good as Taco Bell. Not really all that great, but it helped merge the divide.

Posted in Lit

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