By Yash Seyedbagheri
I never close my door anymore.
No matter how I try to close it with ease and grace, it still slams. Echoes of Mother reverberate around the house, the finality of the front door slamming, the stillness that followed. The words that rose before the slamming. Hamster wheel, constraint, tired. A cracked voice that I pitied and hated and loved.
Sister Nancy tells me we’ll be fine. Fine, what a hollow word.
The house remains still and we traverse emptiness.
What I don’t say is if I slam my door, I’m also alone. Very alone.
I open the front door too.
A whole novel here, I think.