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Perhaps Our Parents Just Want Us Dead

I often think about how my father didn’t take much time out to play with me. Sure, he let me touch a skeleton once and he would take me down to the train station to throw rocks at the boxcars, but other than that he was a pretty busy man and kept to himself.

My mother was pretty solitary too. Once the family could afford a second television, she put it in her bedroom, closed the door and never came out again. Once a month a check for her portion of the rent would appear from under the door. In the morning my sisters would leave a tray of cheese grits and cup of coffee for her outside the door. At night, my brother left ham biscuits. We would crouch by the door and could hear, faintly, the sound of University of Kentucky Men’s Basketball games and laughter.

Sometimes I wish they’d done more with us, but most of the time I am okay with how I turned out.