Everything is right in the world: Dad yawns loud as an opera singer while he relaxes in his chair, spouting his thoughts about the news to no one in particular; Mom stirs the potatoes while she thumbs through the bills before scribbling another note on the family calendar; my brother is out in his beat-up, hand-me-down car bringing his girlfriend home for dinner. Everything is right in the world, except, something is wrong.
I am the odd one out, the “problem.” I’m the puzzle piece whose edges are too worn and faded, like my jeans and dreams. It doesn’t fit where it used to, where it belongs, and all the tape and determination in the world couldn’t fix it. The ties that bind are breaking, like the ripped seams of my metal stud jacket. I’m wrapped up safe and sound here in my cozy cocoon of comforting confusion, choruses
of who-am-I make the melody of the music blasting through my headphones. They block out the screams of “Come back!” from my
family as the gap between the generations grows. I see them standing on the other side, waving for me to come home, but I just crank up the volume as I walk away from the crumbling edge of my childhood. And everything is right in the world.