an anonymous story from an american teenager; by Sarah Dioneda

We are talking about the American teenager in school, and the stories that they tell. I'm not ready to tell mine just yet, but I like to make up ones. Here is one of them.

~

 My father and I are telepathic.

When I was younger, I would reach my hand for his, and at the same time

they’d meet mine.

He would give me a piggyback ride when I wanted one without even asking

and I could always count on him to make my favorite dinner when I got home from school.

 Being young was fantastic.

In the morning,

my father whistled as he made banana chocolate chip oatmeal in 90 degree weather,

somehow defying all odds and making it unhealthy.

My mother would stand over his shoulder, shaking her head at his concoction, as she ate Greek yogurt,

and my brother, with his hands in his jumper, meandered towards the kitchen table,

half asleep, eyes still groggy,

but fully awake as soon as he smelled the sweet aroma coming from the kitchen stove.

Mornings like that were quiet, all of us sitting there with the sound ABC News playing softly on the kitchen TV.

We were thinking of nothing.

Recently,

days like these have spread out thin like plastic wrap.

That TV is broken now.

I have not heard the soft boiling water in a while, but instead

the sound of the blender, as I make my own breakfast

for the health of it.

Mornings consist of my mother working,

my father sleeping in from staying late at work,

my brother asleep in someone else’s bed

and I’ve come to find that

routines are hardly ever concrete. 

Especially in life.

Yesterday,

My father’s logic and my emotions clashed,

we were two oceans knocking into each other

like a mess of salt and water.

Arguments happen like

a pressure building up on my back

until I explode like a Supernova

and leave a molten residue on our kitchen floor.

My mother is in another room

My brother, in another country.

Growing up was not as easy as I imagined.

Leave the worst in the past, they say

but what if the best is there, too?

How hotheaded we are,

filled to the brink with teenage angst.

There are days when life gets to hard, gets too hot,

and I like to think of the past.

It always seemed so much 

kinder, 

softer, 

less political, 

less angry.

Today, 

I awoke to the sound of birds chirping and pressing heat from outside my window, 

my father was whistling 

as he made oatmeal in 90 degree weather.

I went downstairs and hugged him 

despite the humidity and lack of air conditioning. 

He doesn’t say a word, but smiles.

As soon as I eat my breakfast

with all the bananas and chocolate chips,

I look at him

from across the kitchen table.

I smile. 

We were both thinking the same thing.