I was oldest and prettiest, but he did not want me. He preferred plain things that could be uprooted and made ugly.
He took turns with my younger sisters. When they returned to our room, neither ever spoke until dawn, and then it was as if nothing had happened and we were all three good children with clean skin and flower-scented hair. We’d talk about the cute Beatle and make breakfast.
Our father did not drink. It would have been better if he had, for then it might have made some sort of sick sense. Back then, I was always trying to force logic at madness, but I only came away with soupy sounds swishing in my stomach well.
The last time I saw him was in the kitchen. He came up behind me after I had opened the refrigerator. Cold, sour air wafted over my dress front while Father’s bitter breath slaked down my neck.
I dropped three eggs.
He said, “Oops. Best clean that up.”
I waited but nothing happened. Walking past, shells stuck to my socks, the yolks like glue.
That night he had a heart attack. We had prayed for such a thing half our lives and there it was.
Now I watch my grown sisters with their husbands. I haven’t told mine.
I wear thick slippers to bed, but even so, I still feel those broken egg shells from time to time, jagged and brittle, clinging, clinging and never letting go.