We Wanted More.

We wanted more. We loved our shitty mother and drunkard father and our doddering mutt thing who ate cigarette butts in secret. We shared our clothes made out of cat hair and brushed our hair with our fingers; we kept lighters in every jacket pocket; we liked Tabasco on sliced bread. Sometimes, salt did the trick.

When we were old enough to walk to the Metro stop, there were more places to wander through beyond the house and the swing and slide across the street. We stopped going to the park when we found glass shards and empty Buzzballs by the slide’s underbelly.  

The Metro bus off Westheimer never not smelled like piss. We rocked and swayed to the bus’s rhythm until the our bodies moved like we were dancing. Once, we watched a glassy-eyed woman cradle a dead cat on the bus. We weren’t sure if she was even aware the cat was dead, but the whole bus knew just by the smell.

We liked the seats closest to the windows. Watching the people dining in fleeting moments on the busiest streets of shops and restaurants, sometimes we liked to pretend we were on the way to one of those fancy downtown cafes. The ones where you’d have to thumb through crispy white menus and order Sauvignon Blanc with the table’s hors d'oeuvre. We would be in nice clothes, wearing shoes without holes and without dirt under our finger nails. We’d say things like, “good morning,” to strangers on the street and smile and wave at babies gazing our way. 

Mama was a tough lady. She was blind in one eye and loved us both the best she could. She was never the woman who sat at the cafes we dreamed about on the Metro bus, but she liked wine and cigarettes. And God, sometimes.

“I’ll be gone one day, and you girls will just gon’ have to figure this shit out without me,” Mama would say to us. We wished she’d add something more comforting like, “And you’ll be all grown and ready to take on the world,” or “And God will take care of you.” 

But God had never taken care of us, so why would He start now? We’ve only prayed to God a few times as a family—and once between just us.