out of his journal,

toss them into the hungry mouth

of the chiminea,

and light a fire.

As flames

devour his words and

smoke swirls up my nose,

I realize the anger I feel right now

isn’t just about Liam’s

horrible, heartbreaking words in the journal.

It’s from all the words I’ve ever wanted

to say back to him.

Words that’ve been

smoldering inside of me.

It’s time to let them go.

They don’t seem to bother him one bit, but

they’re hurting me.

WORSE THAN PEE ON CARPET

“Eliana Elizabeth Montgomery-Hofstein!

What do you think you’re doing?!”

Mom screams as I use

the garden hose to extinguish

the last flames.

“Your dad’s office!”

She points as if I don’t know the way.

“Now!”

She follows me.

“Phillip, do you know what

your daughter did?”

her voice calls ahead,

warning him that we’re about to storm the door.

Once in Dad’s office,

Mom points to the couch.

“Sit!”

My dog and I instantly obey.

Gigi looks up at me

with her bulging pug eyes like,

This is worse than

pee-on-the-new-white-carpet bad, right?

I nod.

The secret to surviving childhood

so far has been knowing when

to keep my mouth shut.

But I am not a child anymore.

I have feelings.

I have thoughts.

I have the right to express them both.

Mom fills Dad in and

starts in on me again.

“You know the rules.

No. Starting. Fires. Alone.

Ever! Ever!! Ever!!!”

“What did you burn?” Dad asks.

“Just some nasty writing

I didn’t want anyone else to read.”

I don’t lie.

“So tearing it into pieces and

tossing it into the trash wasn’t an option?”

Mom throws her hands up in the air.

“Nope! Not when you’re always

going through my trash.”

I can’t believe I just said

these words aloud.

And it’s so worth it to see

the shocked look on her face.

“You should hear all the words

I want to say to you, Mom.”

I may be grounded,

but I’m lighter than a balloon

as I float to my room.

SHABBAT

In the Lone Star State,

Friday nights in the fall

are all about football,

but not at our house,

although we could use

a few referees

—especially after this week,

when it’s been

one scrimmage after another.

We gather in the dining room.

I dread when we greet each other

with hugs and “Shabbat shalom.”

I prefer cuddling with a porcupine

over hugging Liam.

I look forward to the blessing, though.

Even though Mom’s a Christian,

she participates.

My parents place their

hands on my head

and pray over me.

I always focus on Mom’s voice.

“May God show you favor

and be gracious to you.

May God show you kindness

and grant you peace.”

Favor.

Kindness.

Peace.

Yes, I’d like that.

From Mom.

For a change.

WHALING SEASON