#i got my silly little outfit... got my tshirt... got my orange vest... got my epic delorean/fire/license plate socks

[brinkle-brackle]

family

(a/n: SURPRISE FIC!!!!!!!! I wrote this prose poem thingy for a class writing exercise last semester and I'm very proud of it, and I wanted to put something out for bttf day so here it is now :) I hope yall enjoy it!!)

- - - - -

I have a father. A father who I am unsure if I will ever truly know in any real way. His eyes have been fixed to the television every night for as long as I can remember. He blinks in tandem with the static. He is wired, he laughs along with the laugh track. He is wired to cringe and cower beneath and stutter and laugh and laugh and laugh. His laugh, what a shaky, unsure laugh. He laughs and nods and laughs, full of fear. "Yes, sir, of course, sir, I know, sir-- hah, ouch-- yes, sir, I know, sir. You can- can count on me, sir." I ask him why he does what he does. He tells me he can do nothing else.

I have a mother, although I wonder if I ever truly had a mother. I wonder if this was something that developed as I grew up. Maybe it is just that I cannot remember her for who she used to be, or maybe she has always been like this. So jaded, so distant. A haze lies over her eyes, they are glass. Every evening they become glass. Tonight she is two vodkas in.

I have a brother who does not take his life as seriously as he should. Ever since graduating he has sat in the same place, flipping and frying. He does not like effort. He tells me that he is content as he is. A lazy smile, the stench of grease lingering from the spot he stands in even long after he has left. It is everywhere in his room. It creeps out in the wash and corrupts the rest of our clothes and bedsheets. He is turning gray before my eyes. Any longer, and I fear he will become a stone.

I have a sister, and she is miserable. Wanting and yearning, yet stifled. Aware, though. She is aware of what our parents have and what they do not have, and what they do not have she wants for herself. Her heart calls out. It tires of living in such a perpetual state of stillness, it wants to beat. A companion. A dinner for two, caring not if it will work out, just to try. That is what she wants: to try.

I have a family, and they are not you.

I have a girlfriend and she is my world. She is the sun when the clouds get thick and the clouds when the sun gets hot. She is musical laughter and stolen kisses before algebra class. She is planned-out road trips and a walk hand in hand through the town square. She is off-key, loudly-sung ABBA under the stars after leaving the cinema. She is a ride through the neighborhood, a skateboard date to 7-Eleven at twilight. She has been in the front row of every gig I have ever done (exactly two). She sings along when I practice my guitar-- not loudly, not off-key-- but just right. From her heart. She is solace.

She is everything to me, but not in the same way you are.

I sit down at the dinner table. My brother eats, but my sister prefers talking over chewing. I do not blame her, I am not hungry either. My fork becomes a rake on my plate with its slow and languid movements. Our mother speaks of her brother who will be visiting tomorrow. My sister makes a snarky comment, a blunt knife shot from between her teeth. Our mother just laughs, and it is the closest thing to genuinity I have heard from her in a long time, although it is not quite there. She calls out to our father. He does not answer, he has wired himself up to the television the way he does every night. Our mother waits, but he does not answer. He laughs along with the laugh track.

I have a father, and he is not you.

Stomach turning, I retreat to my room for the evening. I play my guitar until I hear my sister snap through the wall for me to quiet down. I prop my guitar against the wall and dial on my landline, and it rings one, two times before you answer. You greet me with warmth in your voice, you ask me how my day was. I tell you. You ask me about algebra, and I make a strange noise. You help me with my homework, we are on the phone for hours as numbers clash and meld together in my mind's eye. It is late now, and you can hear the tiredness in my voice. The math book is long gone, but we are still talking, although there are more pauses in our voices. Tomorrow is my audition, I say. You know, you remember. Come by my garage in the morning before school, you tell me-- I made something for you that might help you out with practicing. You can play without having to worry about waking your family up.

I have a father, and he is not you. But he does not ask me about my day with genuine interest. He does not help me with my algebra homework. He does not tell me his dreams and aspirations, and he does not encourage mine with equal enthusiasm. He does not give me pep talks. He does not get Burger King and offer to watch cheesy older movies with me when I have had a bad day. He does not put his heart into everything he does and include me in all of it. He does not stay on the line with me until I fall asleep, smile on my face and phone resting limply in my hand.

I am not in his world and he is not in mine. But you and I, we are engrained, woven into each others'.

I have a father, and he is not you. But family is not always the thing written in one's blood.