Age 12
The bright yet cold Thanksgiving afternoon light sneaked its way in through the cracks in the curtains. Bobby sat on the couch, in the place that had the most sunlight. A football game was on the TV, but Bobby was only mildly interested in it. He'd look up from his book now and then to watch a few moments, or an instant replay his father, sitting in the easy chair, excitedly hollered for him to watch. Before descending back into the world of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Bobby would stare at the kitchen door for a moment listening to his mother as she moved about the kitchen preparing their holiday dinner. He listened, he always listened. He'd learned to determine her moods, how well she was feeling, by the sounds she made. It wasn't only in the words she used, or the tone her voice held or didn't hold. The pitch of her humming, the click of her shoes on the tile floor, her very breathing sometimes, could tell him if an episode was on the way. He paused now, listening, and decided everything was all right. When his eyes traveled from the kitchen door on the way back to his book, they swept over his father, sitting his easy chair. He had intended to meet his father's gaze, to share that moment they so often shared, for Bobby knew his dad listened too. The two of them listened together, like soldiers on a quiet battlefield; waiting for the slightest hint another struggle was coming. Bobby often dreamed he and his father were knights, battling an unseen foe, as they fought bravely to save the maiden in danger. When his eyes swept over his father, sitting there in the easy chair, Bobby's heart sunk. His father didn't meet his gaze, he hadn't been listening, he'd been watching the football game. Bobby's stomach churned and he took a deep breath, swallowing the tears that were caught in his throat. The battle was his, and his alone now.
The bright yet cold Thanksgiving afternoon light sneaked its way in through the cracks in the curtains. Bobby sat on the couch, in the place that had the most sunlight. A football game was on the TV, but Bobby was only mildly interested in it. He'd look up from his book now and then to watch a few moments, or an instant replay his father, sitting in the easy chair, excitedly hollered for him to watch. Before descending back into the world of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Bobby would stare at the kitchen door for a moment listening to his mother as she moved about the kitchen preparing their holiday dinner. He listened, he always listened. He'd learned to determine her moods, how well she was feeling, by the sounds she made. It wasn't only in the words she used, or the tone her voice held or didn't hold. The pitch of her humming, the click of her shoes on the tile floor, her very breathing sometimes, could tell him if an episode was on the way. He paused now, listening, and decided everything was all right. When his eyes traveled from the kitchen door on the way back to his book, they swept over his father, sitting his easy chair. He had intended to meet his father's gaze, to share that moment they so often shared, for Bobby knew his dad listened too. The two of them listened together, like soldiers on a quiet battlefield; waiting for the slightest hint another struggle was coming. Bobby often dreamed he and his father were knights, battling an unseen foe, as they fought bravely to save the maiden in danger. When his eyes swept over his father, sitting there in the easy chair, Bobby's heart sunk. His father didn't meet his gaze, he hadn't been listening, he'd been watching the football game. Bobby's stomach churned and he took a deep breath, swallowing the tears that were caught in his throat. The battle was his, and his alone now.