or another one of those depressingly damp months
and I am home, which is rare.
I wince as my prematurely arthritic knees
make horrifying noises --
the clicks and pops and elastic-y
sounds that I imagine
you might hear if a beast
were tearing your shoulder out of its socket --
nothing out of the ordinary.
My father watches
from his post in front of the television --
one which has never had cable programming
and with the switch to digital broadcasting
will soon have nothing to offer at all.
But he has managed to find some scrambled
channel with an afternoon rerun of Little House
on the Prairie, or another equally depressing show.
"This weather is bothering my arthritis"
and he responds, matter-of-factly
that if I kept my weight down
maybe I would take some of the stress off my joints.
Sound advice for a girl of twenty struggling with the
mortifying measurements of 5 foot 4 and 125 pounds.
Obesity to be sure.
down, wincing again
to complete the task of tying my running
shoes. I begin to wonder where the limb-eating
beast is, and why he is taking so long to come
to this house. And before I take off
down the street I say
"enjoy your show daddy."