Thomas Elson
One Morning Each Week

One day a week, my family did not begin our mornings with bacon and eggs or even a bowl of cereal.
I would wake to complete silence, followed a few minutes later by mumbling, feet shuffling, then stomping across floors. Palms slapped doorjambs. Stay in bed. Stay quiet.
A few angry yawns. Throats clearing. More shuffling. But no sounds from the kitchen.
The three of us prepared separately. Then a few muttered questions.
Avoid this part. Do not respond. Do not engage.
Eyes flashed toward wall clocks.
Do not think.
More bathroom sounds. Doors closed. Teeth brushed.
Remain silent. Just do what you need to do and be quiet.
Stools flush. Water runs. Doors open. Hangars move across dowels in the closet.
Voices:
Father, “Hurry up. Aren’t you ready yet?”
Mother, “Just be patient.”
Father, “We can’t be late for church.”
Mother, “It’s only a few blocks away.”
Father, shouts at me, “What the hell takes you so long?”
Pretend I don’t hear. Too busy getting ready.
Voices. Words that are forbidden where we’re going.
Father, “---damn it. You do this every week.”
Mother, “Just wait in the ---damn car.”
Repress.

The kitchen door to the garage slams against the wall, does not close. Garage door rolls open. Engine turns over. The roar of a gunned engine.
Do not feel.
Inside the house – the relative calm of an armed truce.
Do not trust.
Mother, “I’m about ready.”
Me, “Me too.”
Quiet.
Until the horn honks once.
Horn honks again.
Horn blares constantly, then stops.
Do not ask.
Horn honks again, twice, then again, and again.
We walk to the garage together.
There’s nothing wrong here and don’t you dare tell anyone about it.