The Maynard
Fall 2018

Drywall

Every night I watch you
from across the house as you make
dinner. Cooking, you’re quiet, hair fanning
from your ponytail as you slip
margarine into a pan, then red meat,
and onions, but not too many. There’s a faded
picture of you in third grade
where I look just like you.
You had your big front teeth before braces,
your long straight nose before you broke
it. Tall, you stood at the back
of your class, like I always
have to. I wore your red plaid blazer
from the 80s for my senior class photo,
so you could see how
the shoulder pads slide off
onto our arms in the same way.

At dinner you don’t say
anything. While Dad talks
you stare somewhere off
the middle of the table and drink
your red wine. After you clear
the plates, you walk down
the brown carpeted stairs to somewhere
below. Your scream is guttural,
the sound of metal
when it crumples fast
in a car wreck.
The wall rattles with an abrupt
thud. You stay down there
a while.

The next day I steal
down to the spare room, close
the door soft. I can feel your scream
vibrating off my chest. At my feet
is the hole in the wall
that your foot made.
I get down on my shins, fingers splayed
in talc dust on floor, hoping to find the source
of your scream. The edge
of the break is rough,
eggshell paint splintered.
I look in, hesitant, like some kid
that’s afraid of monsters
in the dark,
but all I see is drywall.