Dad is mad Mom is so sad. He can say she is not fit, can say she is a big, fat ape. He can cut her lip and hit her eye. Now he can get air.
Mom is mad at me. At me. At me. Me. Me. Her fat kid. I am mad at me. Her bad eye is red for me. Mom can cry. Mom can sip gin and say, “Dad is a dud. And so are you. No toy for you, you dim, fat kid.”
But I am not dim; I am shy. We are fat, but fat is not bad.
Mom can say, “go to bed now, boy. If you wet the bed, it is up to God to fix you.”
Mom can hit me, so I go to bed.
I did not wet the bed. It was one day. An old day.
I am sad in my bed. My big sis was sad too but is now far off in a new bed. Is she fat now? I
cry but do not die so one day I can see my big sis.
Our pug Sam is sad on the rug by my bed. I go to him for a hug, but I’m mad at him, so I pet his fur. I am mad at him. He is a dog. He can run so far. I do not. I do not run so far.
Dad is now by my bed so I get off the rug. I get in my bed.
Sam can run. Sam can run. Sam can run.
“Son, you are Mom, too,” Dad can sip rum and say to me. “You are up and low. Fat and mad.”
Up. Up. Up? Low. Low. Low? I am like Mom, in a way. Mad Mom. Mad son.
I try not to cry. I sit up. The fan is off. It is so hot.
Now by my bed too, Mom can sip gin and say to me, “you are a dud. You wet the bed.” She can say to Dad, “it is up to you to fix the boy.”
I did not wet the bed.
Dad can sip rum and nod. He has a toy, but it is not for me. It is for Sam. But Sam ran. Mom and Dad did not see him go, but I saw him go as Mom and Dad got old by my bed.
Mom has a dry lip now, and I, a dry bed. But her eye is so bad, so she has to go to bed now. And Dad can hug me. His son. Dad is so odd. Dad can say the toy is for me. Dad can hug me. Dad is bad, but I see he is sad too. He did not say he is sad—he is a man. Dad can hit, and I can not. Mom can hit me, but she can not hit Dad.
Dad can go.
Why did Mom and Dad wed? Why am I so fat? Why did I wet my bed? How can I be a new kid for Mom and Dad? How can I run far and be Sam? Run to see my big sis?
I am a fat kid in my bed. I am sad, so I cry and cry and cry.
My eye one is low now. My eye two is low now.
In the red it is now I see my big sis. She can hug me and say, “I love you, bro.”
Editor’s note: This story contains only one word longer than three letters.
Mona Lisa is not a sitter for a famous painter nor the wife of a Florentine silk merchant. She is a community organizer and writer with work previously published in MAYDAY.
The Disappointed Housewife 