Dad’s voice is full of mean as I leave my room and walk down a short set of stairs to our home’s main room, which is built around the trunk of the oak tree. I push my shoulder-length black hair away from my face and skirt the edge of the trunk, heading toward the cooking stove in the corner where a pot of Mom’s stewed apples bubbles over a low fire. The chill of the winter morning seeps in through the cracks in the walls. The scattered rag rugs, faded from years of use, do little to block the cold. I pull my leather coat tight, the book of poems securely tucked in an inner pocket far from my father’s prying eyes. Mom hovers near the stove, her eyes on her husband, her hands already shaking with the need for her next drink. “Guess you were tired after having to do the cleanup all by yourself last night,” Dad says. I grab a chipped porcelain bowl from the rack above the stove and scoop apples into it. “Hope you used that time alone to do some hard thinking, boy, because I’m not putting up with you questioning my authority again.”
