Wrapped in Plastic
It’s not the paint on the walls, or the smell of dinner cooking. It’s not the spotless counters, the vacuumed rugs, or the neatly organized couch pillows. It’s the dinner talk, the “how was your day?” talk, the “homework before bed” talk. That’s what makes it a lie.
No one says what’s on their mind. No blurting out of “Fuck, I’m tired!” over a plate of baked chicken. Burnout doesn’t exist. Family reading hour, an icon of Norman Rockwell’s treasure trove, spent staring at the same line for sixty minutes while the parade of the day’s failures stampede across the brain.
Mother, father, children — it’s simply understood. Who does it benefit? Who does it protect?
Keep the peace, don’t speak out of line, brush the anxiety under the rug. Become numb, so that eventually you’ll learn to be mute. Eventually, you’ll gather enough silence to not know what to say. You’ll have earned the right to forget who you are.
How was your day?
Homework before bed.
