Standing by my car, I take a drag off my cigarette, blowing the smoke out through my nose. I wrestle with a box of my things and attempt to balance it on my knee, my right hand jingles my keys in the left pocket of my jeans as I listen to the autumn breeze caressing my tear-stricken face. Throwing the butt into the gravel beneath my feet, I twist my foot to extinguish the spark. I pace slowly towards the front door. My hand feels cool on the metal as I slowly turn the knob, kicking the uprooted “For Sale” sign leaning against the frame before entering my home for the last time. Age Six: Running around the pool table away from my father, his footsteps are thunderous like the clouds outside, but I am not afraid. He catches me, muscular arms wrapped around my minute frame, and I laugh as he tickles me. His beard nuzzles my cheek; I smell the alcohol on his breath. It’s a familiar scent that stains the air around us. He puts me down on the table, showing me how to hold a pool stick. My fingers do not bend the way he wants, but I develop my own way of shooting. Making contact with the cue ball, the eight ball falls into a corner pocket. I jump up excitedly, yelling my accomplishments, as the stick smacks the white ceiling. I stop in my tracks, suddenly afraid of the booming voice rattling in my skull. [To continue reading this essay, please see the original file I have attached in the "Read More" section.)
In order to keep the artistic intent and integrity of this piece, I felt it best to attach a Word document rather than break this piece into blog worthy snippets.
Thanks for reading!
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