Things that are still a part of me.

It’s a really sunny day here in the suburbs. I’m tired, feeling fat, and waiting for my dog to finish pooping so I can go back inside.

I look longingly at my open garage, a cool abyss of utilitarian emptiness. The entrance to our house.

But then I remember.

I remember the summer 6 years ago, when I came back from a party. My music was blasting, I was feeling the summer breeze in my hair, and most importantly, I was feeling cool in this hot mid summer night. But when I reached up to click the garage door opener, I saw my reality. My dad, in his loose wifebeater, sitting on a camping chair that he probably got from GoodWill, and of course, with multiple beer cans surrounding him.

This was my reality. Not my boxes full of paper awards; my folders full of AP coursework; my email acceptance letter that congratulated my future at a prestigious, private university. Not my genetically gifted skin; distinctly large, wide eyes; candidly spontaneous personality. But this, this was my reality. A dark, cold garage with a drunkard as a father.

I still remember my fast rage at being woken up to my reality. I pushed the accelerator instead of the brake, fully realizing what this action indicated.

I wanted him gone.

Only when the headlight was fully coating my father, the glare strong enough to diminish his features, I shoved on the brake. Slamming the door, I walked back into my house.