Homesick

Homesick is currently an exhaustingly humid room of excited, circle-jerking Adults sporting loud manes and axes to grind at the dinner table. It exists in a place between moderate and less moderate dispositions.

It is not purgatory, but it is brooding.

Occasionally, two or three adults move to the kitchen or bathroom to continue their dispute, or to gossip in content of their adversaries. There are children having a sleepover in a bedroom and indulging their ignorance in Adventure Time and Truth or Dare. The adults can be heard every 20 minutes or so, their murmurs abruptly canonized by rushed speech which frequently changes point of view as if escaped from the engorged belly of a possessed Pope. Their meanings overlap into “no’s” and poisonous whoops and hollers, and then a more sincere tone in the bass register that resonates in the key of reconciliation. (I believe that would be D minor, seeing that they are Depressed behind their masks of sophism. Then again, music is magic under veils and beyond me, even if it demands judgement).

In the midst of the brouhaha, a door is slammed shut so hard that the bang and rattle left behind are reminiscent of an origin that proves so far to be as absurd and oppressive as existence. It was difficult to escape, which became apparent as the adults mirrored the face of accountability: a thing of the past. Finn and the Flame Princess hold the children in their honest arms through it all, but eventually the son of the host postures his cunning by calling everyone’s attention. With silvery plastic wand in hand, he commands the stage of their entertainment to a curtain that reads “Blocked by channel and content.” The children gasp. The boy giggles, “Watch this…” With well-choreographed fingers, he enters the magic spell that lifts the curtain, revealing a burning building. Its flames seem to devour all life present in the room. The room begins to lose its virginal air, which is replaced with the mild fragrance of suffocation. A voice confides, “It’s probably the end of the world. Or worse: terrorists.” One child wearing defunct aviator lenses becomes restless. Due to her introverted nature, she escapes to the kitchen as a means of self-preservation and recentering; popcorn was not allowed upstairs and she could easily fit in the closet filled with cleaning supplies.

Upon entering, the child manages to capture a sharp “EEP!” in the netting of her fingers. Two pot-bellied men preside, smiling and holding one green bottle, each. One has his arms crossed and the other beast is scratching his pale neck. The frightened adolescent hesitates, and abides in waiting. One takes a sip, and the other beast, having lost control over both his motor and mirror neurons, follows. (“An opportunity!”) She makes for a sprint. The callused ball of her foot and her 6 months of cross country training by means of the balding Mrs. Mahoney’s constant criticism (alongside the laughter and emotional abuse she has barely survived from her pubescent and socially pretentious female peers) have placed her in the forgiving light of fortuna. On her flight, she hears the word “thug”. She makes it to the patio. Out of breath, and silently locking the chicken-wired door behind her, she gazes up to the stars peeking beyond the wet, rotting canopy. It’s hard to breath when you have asthma and there is a mason jar two feet away from you. It sits on a woven coffee table, uncomfortable but in a deathly calm, and overfed with cigarettes, one still sighing a seemingly eternal sigh through the mouth of the mason jar.

Her lungs wish they could feel that weightless, and her ancestry wish heaven could reach the clouds. Why is life so vivid when you’re in pain? Her 7-hour rumination on the word “thug” begins. Thank Glob school is over… And thank Goddess she has found her father:

“RANGER!”

One dark and varicose mitt swipes the liquid state of frustration off his brow. The other keeps his center. Her father takes his rest on the moss-ridden railing, wearing outdated aviator lenses and a tired smile.

Ranger grins and limps towards him. It must have felt like gliding. Why pain so light when life is vivid?

“Let’s go home.”