My Mother, The Hoover

I want to clap. Not applaud, just clap. Oh and I want to make a high pitched sound like a whiny dog. And you know what? I think I might want to touch the ground. Yeah, bend right over and press my fingers to the floor. In fact, the more I think about it the more I need to do it and I'm only seven or I might be forty and the space in-between is filled with the knowledge that the world is so huge and I'm so small. So I count to six, over and over again in my head: because I count for nothing beyond, and I want to clap and I want to bark like a damn simpering dog, and I don't want anyone to notice when I do it and I think it might be my parents fault.

My father is a suitcase. Yeah, really. A big black suitcase with shiny silver trim, hard, unyielding, and sometimes full of presents but usually just a suitcase someplace else. And my mother is a hoover. She makes a droning sound and I used to find it reassuring but now it just annoys me and I'm seven years old and the world is huge and I might be forty and the world will still be huge and I'm wishing I could touch the floor with the tips of my fingers and if I wasn't so obsessed with touching the floor I might try touching the sky.