Dad just started giving me the talk
Though I won’t need for another twelve to thirteen years
And probably even longer than that, I mean nothing’s
happening any time soon
I sit on his bedside listening to the details that make me
wince
Of how a mans penis enters a woman’s vagina.
Dad uses his hands to show me a general picture
Making a circle with his hand and fingers,
The other hand is straight and goes through the circle.
Besides changing diapers, I’ve never seen that part of a boy
My imagination, along with Dad’s visual is an interesting
combination
He continues to explain sex, between a man and a woman
It was that simple back then.
Thousands of sperm are released. Thus starts the competition
They all race to see who can get to the egg first
Guppies hunting for the prized Easter Egg
That’s all I have to go on.
The egg is the prize, whoever gets there first is the winner
That is how a woman becomes pregnant but if you don’t want
to get pregnant
You have to use protection, the most common form of
protection is called a condom.
Do we have any banana’s?
Do we need any? I wrinkle my eyebrows.
Okay, imagine a banana and a plastic bag over it
The plastic bag is the condom the banana is the, well,
penis.
Thanks Dad!
He talks but I look at the nightstand and I see the dozens
Of bottles of pills because somehow he has been sick for
years
Then to his left I see a nice tall glass of apple juice
The room though is covered in clothes, t-shirts, shorts,
boxers,
Briefs, lingerie, underwear of all sorts, jeans, sweatpants,
sweatshirts,
Shorts, and not all of them are Mom’s and Dad’s, some might
be mine
Mingled in with it all, a Kit-Kat wrapper, or two or three,
from last Halloween
Happy April! A couple of fast food bags from Wednesday
nights after church
With all the unfinished hamburgers and fries still in them
probably molding.
Every room in the apartment looks this way
Each one has its own emphasis
The living room has exactly a one-foot wide walkway
Wide enough to take a seat on the couch
Long enough to reach the television
The kitchen has all of its contents pushed to the edges
Hidden under the counters
I’m pretty sure there are only three to five dishes clean at
a time
Most of them sit dirty on top of the stove or dishwasher
Don’t get me started on my sibling’s room and mine
One boy, two girls, two beds, three dressers, one closet.
Josh sleeps on a mattress that pulls out from under our bunk
bed
The dressers are arranged so we have an alcove
One to change in so Josh doesn’t see us naked,
All toy boxes sit on top of the dressers
When I sit up in the mornings, I duck and dodge the ceiling
fan
The one that cut Josh and made him get five stitches.
The Hallway is lined with buckets
All filled with cloths that got passed down to us.
We don’t have money for the laundry mat, so they sit there
Building for months, eventually they just fall to the floor,
My parents do nothing about it, and neither do I.
Surprisingly enough, we never had any problems with family
services
Not in that apartment, and it had to be our worst one.
How did I get so lucky as to be born to this family? I
wonder.
Left Missouri to run from family services
And a couple of over drawn bank accounts,
Dad adds in later conversations.
Lived with my cousin, and Grandparents for over a year.
Can’t afford a house, or apartment really,
I didn’t mind though, hanging with the grandparents was
great then.
Don’t forget about that time I heard Dad yelling at Mom,
I walked in on “Mom and Dad time.” She was naked, against
the wall
Face crinkled, eyes wet and red, Dad’s finger pointing to
her face.
He was naked too.
Becca, this is between your mother and I.
I didn’t understand then, he whispered something
It was about stopping in the middle.
Did that answer your question? I nod, and I am thirsty from
all this sex talk
Grabbing the apple juice from the nightstand Dad tries to
stop me
But the sourness hits my taste buds first and the liquid
lands on his face
What is that!?
He says some weird word, then clarifies that it is some sort
of alcohol.
I wipe my lips, using my fingers to brush my tongue off
Didn’t like the taste then, still don’t like it now.
I dump the last of the five bottles into the toilet,
Twenty years old, and still cleaning up after my parents.
I should have thrown it all out then, when I had the chance.
