Leaving Daddy :: Personal Narrative

Leaving Daddy The 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 Momma's 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 open window in the driver's seat where Momma's 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 driver's seat and the passenger's. 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 wasn't you, Mitchell. It wasn't 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 wasn't 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 family's 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 other's 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. Leaving Daddy :: Personal Narrative Leaving Daddy The 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 Momma's 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 open window in the driver's seat where Momma's 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 driver's seat and the passenger's. 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 wasn't you, Mitchell. It wasn't 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 wasn't 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 family's 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 other's 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.