THE SOUND OF GRAVEL

Tucked away in my bedroom,

I hear tires on gravel.

The garage door groans.

I hold my breath.

The side entry door bears the weight

of everything he brings home.

Slam.

“Evelyn!

I’m sick of seeing Sara’s blinds drawn

every time I come home.

She’s been holed up in that room

for far too long!”

I bite my lip,

pacing the path I’ve worn

into my bedroom floor.

Back

And forth.

I know this argument

before it begins.

I know my father’s anger.

I know my mother’s response.

“Stop snapping at me, Burt!

If Sara needs her room right now,

then Sara should stay in her room right now.

We will not control her.”

“Are you kidding me, Evelyn?

Do you know yourself?

You are always holding her back.

Limiting her.

Suffocating her.

Squeezing the life out of her!”

“Here we go again.

You’re the fun one.

I’m the party buster.

I’m not limiting Sara.

Sara is limited—

for now.”

I stop mid-step.

The word

limited

ricochets inside me

until it hits—

hard.

My mother—

whose arms first cradled me—

has reduced me

to one word.

“But I’m here for Sara.

Where are you?

Hiding out at work.

Hanging out with friends.

Coming home late.

Avoiding Sara.

Avoiding me.

Can’t you tell

she’s suffering?”

“Suffering?

Are we being melodramatic

again, Evelyn?

She’s not suffering.

She’s an angry teen.”

An angry teen.

How easily

a person disappears

behind a label.

Round after round,

they keep fighting,

neither letting up,

neither giving in.

I grab two pillows,

one for each ear,

and press them against my head,

hoping for silence.

Still,

I hear them.

The gravel.

The slam.

Limited.

THE SOUND OF GRAVEL