By Ragina Lashley

It is a Thursday afternoon when the woman rises from her deep sleep, trying to drowse away the ringing sounds of the previous night. I hear her wide mouth stretch open, sucking in the cold living room air, just as I open the front door. The yawning woman is my pathetic wife. But I don’t see her as anything else, but a woman who swims for happiness in any glass or mug she sees. There is my Mickey Mouse mug on the coffee table, the sunlight pouring little bits of dust on the rim. At approximately 6:30pm last Thursday, it was used for other brews. I can hear the sounds of children shrieking with joy.

Speaking of youth, our angst-ridden son will be turning thirteen in two weeks, and yet all he has to look forward to is a cake made from this woman upstairs, a so-called parent, and a gift bought the day of. That particular gift is from me. You see, I’m his father no doubt. I’m neither hip, nor at peak fitness. But I’m trying, I always am, to stop him from the disappointments life can bring, but it’s just so hard. My work hours are never consistent, and I get hungry late at night.

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