We Can't Have Nice Things

Photo by Carrie Thomas

I remember knocking over a china vase while fighting with my sister. It was probably the 5th grade. I remember getting super glue and piecing it back together to cover all traces of our sin. My mother used to say that we couldn't have nice things. I think that I was a big part of this.

I remember staining the carpet with bleach. I had white shoes that I wore to gymnastics and they had turned an earthy shade of brown. I took a bottle of bleach and cotton balls and sat Indian-style on the carpet, dapping the bleach on the offending spots. I was so proud of my accomplishment until I looked down at the half dollar sized circles of bleached carpet. I grabbed magic markers and shoe polish to try and fix the mistake, but I was found out. My mother was furious. I had to sit in a chair without moving until my father got home. I think this was the last time in my life that my father whipped me with a belt.

I was standing in line this week at the post office, listening to music when the sound stopped pumping into my left ear. I discovered that my nice headphones, a christmas gift had started to come apart due more than likely to the rigors of abuse that I have inflicted on them. For the last week, I have been listening to music through one ear. The strange thing is that I feel like I can hear what should be coming through the broken headphone, but it's just in my head. I'm completing a circuit like an amputee who feels the need to scratch a limb that is no longer there. Yes, We just can't have nice things