Writing from a few months back

It starts with the boxes in the garage. “He just needs some storage space,” my mother says. “It’s not like we’re piling them in your room.”

“Not yet."

“What do you want from my life?”

I picture Petey banging himself around his cage, trying to commit birdicide. In the end his companion did him in. Is that why she keeps edging Bill and his boxes of INXS tapes and his turmoil closer to our lives? At least my grandfather had the courtesy to give the bird away so Petey’s family wasn’t watching his demise. “I’m going out,” I say. Finally I’ve earned my driver’s license, my ticket out.

I key the engine and slip my car into reverse, then back out. My life feels greasy, slicked with everything I don’t want and can’t control.

I shift my foot from gas to brake, then switch the transmission into drive. Our house appears in my rear-view mirror: a faux French country cottage with styrofoam cornerstones. They’re called quoins. But they’re still styrofoam. You can still grab a hunk and rip.