I’ve been kicked out several times before.
I’m not clean enough. There’s not enough room. It’s not where I belong. Not even in the hollowing minutes of midnight am I permitted in, despite the fact that my presence was cherished only a few years ago. It was a haven in elementary school, a time when the anxiety accompanying the first day back would spin in the endless ether of my mind. Now, the welcome comes after some hesitation. Why would I want to sleep in my parents’ bed, anyway?
I think I rely on my padres un poco too much. After listening to an episode of This American Life, I realized why. The show examined a variety of sources; a viral news story, some guy’s stand up show, a novel, and the host’s own experiences to come to the grand conclusion that parents aren’t perfect despite kids’ persistent delusion that they are.
Take me for example.
I’m pretty sure my mom has all the answers. She does what is right and knows how to always do what is right, how to understand and how to be understood. I used to come to her room for the warmth of her involuntary embrace in her sleep. Now, I come to her for everything and just a little bit more. We’ll talk for forever. I try to be the best listener. She tries to be the most efficient relayer of information. Sometimes she succeeds.
My dad won’t take anything seriously. Until he knows he has to. His “Macho” aesthetic counters the gentle spirit he takes on when I’m sad. My humor is painfully his: the contrast in our reasonable public demeanor and the nonsensical nature of our jokes is really just a Briceno specialty.
But I’d watch another dozen terribly written Amazon Prime movies just to be with them. On the neatest and most alluring bed one could find. The one in the room just next to mine.
