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I was trying to figure out what this feeling reminded me of, and I think I know.
My little brother Abram and I use used to wait for the sound of our dad's truck pulling into the driveway, then we'd go hide in my closet.
We crouched and waited to hear if he'd slam the door, if he'd stomp up the stairs. We wanted to see if he was Good Dad or Bad Dad.
We were like safecrackers, age 9 and 6, listening to the ticks with a stethoscope so we'd know what to expect when we opened my closet door.
Waiting waiting waiting, wondering if the terrible end of the world was outside the door. That's what this feels like.
Trauma is so extraneous right now. How dull of me.
