Every year my birthday cake is a cheesecake. This year I came home from my apartment a few hours away in my dad’s new truck with the giant screen implanted into the dashboard and 6 cup-holders in the oversized center-console. Theres a spot which was designed in order to fit an iPad for the hypothetical kids in the back; we sit in the front and chatter over static and 80s new wave. The drive felt longer than I remembered, and pull in to the garage. I’m welcomed with partially-familiar hugs and someone else filling picture frames and empty space. There’s new bikes in the driveway, and a different coffee-pot on the counter. My parents are trying some new diet, and my sister moved out. I eat pancakes and sugar-free syrup for breakfast at the counter by myself. We celebrate my birthday two weeks early because it fit better into everyone’s schedules, so I’m a year older here. I do my homework at the kitchen table that collects dust and afternoon mail, and listen to music on the old speakers while my dad works upstairs. We sit on the couch and eat gluten free cheesecake over background television, half-drinken cups of tea, and a tissue paper scattered floor. Two days later, I eat gluten-free cheesecake at the counter and taste twenty years of half-baked hometown memories.
Feral in the barrel 