Leaving Daddy :: Personal Narrative

Leaving DaddyThe house, all bricks and windows silhouetted by the moon, dwindled to the size of Legos as we pulled onto the freeway. I crouched on the back posture of Mommas green sedan, knees tucked under me, veneer rearward with my arms folded under my chin. Cheryl, her body tucked into a ball next to me, folded her sweater surrounded by her manoeuver and the door to soften the rocking of the car. On my unexpended was Doug, his head lolled back onto the seat and his eyes staring at the ceiling, black hair whipping in the wind from the open window in the drivers seat where Mommas articulatio cubiti jutted out into the darkness, her hand rising every few minutes to wipe the tears from her eyes.As the last thing familiar vanished from sight, I rancid toward the forward, my feet stint out for the space between the drivers seat and the passengers. Mitchell rode shotgun next to Momma, his rightful place as the oldest. The headlights from the car behind us flashed on the front wi ndow, and I could see his reflection, the strong jaw and the defiant eyes that challenged everything.Why are we leaving, Momma? he asked. What did we do?It wasnt you, Mitchell. It wasnt any of you, Momma said. Your daddy and I further need some time away from each other. Her eyes watched the white reflectors dividing the lanes disappear under the car.I knew it wasnt about my older brothers this time. I had overheard bountiful in those few weeks before we moved to Kentucky to understand that the move away from Louisiana was my familys last gamble to save my brothers from the future that was written as in darkness on their skins as the tattoos they had drawn on each others arms with a sewing needle and ink. We were like two sets of children, Mitchell and Doug, then Cheryl and me-a five-year gap in between us creating a rift we could never mend. Even at seven, I recognized my brothers power as they swept the rest of us into their path, my sister and I interruption on to the edges of the storm.I thought about the house we had just left, how it had blinked from view like the ending of a cartoon where the edges close in boulder clay on that point is only blackness. Inside was the only bedroom I ever had to myself with a lamp in the shape of a drum, a cat clock that wagged its rear and turn its eyes, and a vent in the floor through which my sister, in the room next door, would whisper stories to me at night.Leaving Daddy Personal tarradiddleLeaving DaddyThe house, all bricks and windows silhouetted by the moon, dwindled to the size of Legos as we pulled onto the freeway. I crouched on the back seat of Mommas green sedan, knees tucked under me, facing backwards with my arms folded under my chin. Cheryl, her body tucked into a ball next to me, folded her sweater between her head and the door to soften the rocking of the car. On my left was Doug, his head lolled back onto the seat and his eyes staring at the ceiling, black hair whipping in the wind from the ope n window in the drivers seat where Mommas elbow jutted out into the darkness, her hand rising every few minutes to wipe the tears from her eyes.As the last thing familiar vanished from sight, I turned toward the front, my feet reaching out for the space between the drivers seat and the passengers. Mitchell rode shotgun next to Momma, his rightful place as the oldest. The headlights from the car behind us flashed on the front window, and I could see his reflection, the strong jaw and the defiant eyes that challenged everything.Why are we leaving, Momma? he asked. What did we do?It wasnt you, Mitchell. It wasnt any of you, Momma said. Your daddy and I just need some time away from each other. Her eyes watched the white reflectors dividing the lanes disappear under the car.I knew it wasnt about my older brothers this time. I had overheard enough in those few weeks before we moved to Kentucky to understand that the move away from Louisiana was my familys last gamble to save my brothers from the future that was written as darkly on their skins as the tattoos they had drawn on each others arms with a sewing needle and ink. We were like two sets of children, Mitchell and Doug, then Cheryl and me-a five-year gap in between us creating a rift we could never mend. Even at seven, I recognized my brothers power as they swept the rest of us into their path, my sister and I hanging on to the edges of the storm.I thought about the house we had just left, how it had blinked from view like the ending of a cartoon where the edges close in till there is only blackness. Inside was the only bedroom I ever had to myself with a lamp in the shape of a drum, a cat clock that wagged its tail and rolled its eyes, and a vent in the floor through which my sister, in the room next door, would whisper stories to me at night.