Daddy was a Stop Sign, hard-edged, dull red, scarred by BB pellets, a constructed concrete barricade blocking us from making our own decisions, even Mama, who Daddy misread like most men of his generation regarding her simply as Soft Shoulder and Curve Ahead but discovering, after they married, she was Private Road Keep Out and Do Not Enter.
Before she married, Mama pegged Daddy as a Roundabout who she could circle slowly, choose her options, and travel in thrilling uncharted directions, but by their first anniversary, she renamed him Mr. Dead End, a man going nowhere, a man to hold at arm’s length, blocking his hugs and kisses.
My sister is a Yield sign, paralyzed in place and fixed to the rusted and crumbled Stop Sign left by Daddy’s passing, a half-grown woman who searches the streets for a sign of what to do next. I shout for her to switch gears, to retrace her steps to the days before her complete stunted stop to choose to be a U-Turn, but she pretends not to hear.
From my first breath, Mama called me a Caution, warned me to Slow Down, and told me to Be Prepared to Stop, for she so often aligned with Daddy not me, building a cruel ache over what might’ve been between us, eroding mother and daughter into nothing more than a Bridge Washed Out No Access.
When confronted by the Stop Sign, I could not, would not stop; instead, I embraced not a sign but a signal—that Yellow Traffic Light, a bright blaring beacon, which guided me to proceed with caution, to stop, but not forever.
