First, I forgot how to play. When there is so much shouting I have to think like an equal at home. There’s Mom in the bedroom sleeping and a recovering dog on the couch and I forget in the morning how I want eggs to taste. Do I like eggs scrambled or some other way? You can still taste them, at least, Mom says.
When Dad walks into the kitchen, it’s like I have a head wound. He shouts, someone needs compassion! I once saw a sad movie in which a father dies and the children nestle around him tenderly. It was a Christmas movie where the father’s soul ascends to heaven, you can see it going there, there is music blowing into the air.
Mom says it’s time for breakfast and what kind of eggs do I fancy? Do you still like the kind that break in the middle? The way she says it makes her soft again. I cannot remember what I say to her, but I admire the tenderness in her voice.
Sometimes, I imagine I’m cooking breakfast for a wounded father. You have to work carefully, I say to the family in my dollhouse. The kitchen is ready for good smells, good times. I imagine the father resting near the dining room window, staring out at the plastic sky.
Sometimes I go hunting for neighborhood treasures and sit in the field of silent cows. I wonder what cows are afraid of, and what comes to mind are wolves. I’ve learned how to sit comfortably in their presence, not to worry about being trampled. Hello big animals, I say, longing for acceptance.
There are times when a shouting dad can win but also lose. The roots of Mom’s hair have turned grey. I don’t want to lie to you, she says, your father feels that he’s gotten this thing.
Now I’m shouting back at him. I’m telling him that the TV says it has spread all over the world. Mom says and it hangs like a weird promise right over our house. She’s baking a pie, making our kitchen smell good again. Can you smell this at all? she shouts.
I tell the cows that the year of the virus is like a wolf attack. They look at me suspiciously, as if they recognize how delicious they are.
