.........Continued My father, he died last year. We don't talk about him. I found him in the bathroom with red spilling out of him like someone had accidentally tipped over a bucket of red paint. I didn?t care too much about my father but the red spill needed to be put back into his body. That was all I knew. My mother found me trying to scoop the red with my hands and put it back into his mouth where it had spilled from. "Stop!" "Stop!!" "Stop it!" she yelled at me as she dragged me off the tiled floor. The police and the ambulance took him away. We don?t talk about him. It?s ok because I never liked him. He made sounds I could not understand. He banged doors, crashed over furniture, threw pots at my mother and shoes at me. He talked loud. Every word slurred into another until his talk sounded like loud nonsense. The sounds he made always smelled of something strong, mixed with vomit. I never liked him. But when they took him away, my mother cried--a soft whimpering sound that choked her as she put me on her lap while she cleaned my finger nails with a paper clip, making sure all the dried up red came off from under my nails. Her soft sounds usually were wet. I know wet sounds as they soak the back of my T-shirt when my mother buries her head between my shoulder blades. It is a cry of a puppy which nuzzles its mother for warmth. I know this because I saw puppies do that at the petting zoo, when we went on a field trip. I also know, my mother knows I am not her mother. But, I pretend sometimes and let her cry her wet sounds until they stop. She pretends too --sometimes when she catches me with a paperclip stuck deep into my finger. It is then I listen to her heartbeat and match mine to comfort her. The sounds my sister makes are always demanding. Her sounds make me rush to her. It?s strange how the red from her body always makes her scream. I never scream. My father never screamed. But, she is different. She is a baby--a baby girl. She wears bright colors in her dresses. I wear jeans? always. Jeans,-- at times too large for me. Large ones are the ones given by the "talking lady" from the school. My mother washes them in the tub when she does not have money for the Laundromat. Then, she folds and pins up the extra cloth snug onto my waist. The pants usually need a belt because of my round belly. "Baby fat" is what my mother calls it as she tries to attach an oversized pair of jeans on to my body. She kisses me and I smile. I like the sound of my mother's kiss. These days she has the time to kiss me and Maggie goodnight. I no longer wake up to angry noises at night. Her kiss is usually cool on my hot forehead. Her lips are soft and her breath is warm. She smiles an approving smile as she comments "No red from your fingers tomorrow. Ok?" I smile back at her. Our smiles have no sound. ..............To be continued