Laundrey is compacted

in two separate bags, one orange and the other crimson, and the bags are staring at me and I want to frown. Then there's the fridge with leftover nachos, an opened can of baked beans, ketchup, and a gallon of milk. I covered a stain on the floor that must have appeared after we moved into the house once the laundered carpet had dried with a floor mat meant for a bathroom. It's plush and soft on my toes but it doesn't belong and doesn't disguise what's underneath, perhaps a beer stain, or a milk stain, or a spaghetti stain.

We're still fighting about who's job it is to do what and it just occurred to me that we're both spoiled rotten, me being an only child and him being the baby. But I have Time Magazine on my side. And also I'm white, but he's a man, which is what it comes down to more than the order in which we were born.

My left hearing aid just died. It plays a chord and then goes silent. I can't see as well or think as well or fight as well about who's job it is to do the laundry. I'm digging through drawers and counting out change to buy more batteries. I'm licking the ends of used ones to see if I can release more charge. The furrows in my brow are now permanent and I know I'm not growing younger.

My dad and I are running together. He speaks in whole sentences about the things he's reading and hearing; I speak in short gasps and choke back my breakfast. I lead him around like I did when I was little, telling him to go left and go right and run faster and slow down and flip his hands palms facing toward the sky. He does these things and thanks me each time. He's always reading when I arrive at the pizzeria each evening, and we smile at each other like we're in on a secret, like we've missed one another and we know what's in store for the next morning.

More seconds
forced into bliss.