our home

Our home wasn’t a very happy place, either. In fact, a sense of sadness pervaded it. At least that’s what I felt. Maybe it was all the religion. Father was all fire and brimstone and mother was only a step or two behind him. We didn’t laugh much, either. We wanted to, but it just didn’t happen much. At best, I guess you could say we were polite. I would’ve traded a little politeness for some knee-slapping rowdiness. The best times I remember was when I was outside, in the woods. It was open, there, not suffocating, like at home. I could breathe. My best friend was Max. His house was different. His father ran the local saloon. His mother worked there, too. Even Max helped out. He had good stories. He thought it was really weird that we didn’t laugh at our house. He said that’s about all they did. I was jealous, of course. I’d eat dinner over there whenever I could. It was fun. Max’s father ended up getting shot dead by a drunk. His mom stopped laughing for a good while. Turned out, later, that she’d been seeing the man who shot her husband. He went off to jail. She sold the bar. Max left town when he was 17. Later, he joined the army. I lost track of him, after that.