We are probably the last house on our street to own a television set. Before that, I'm not aware we've been missing out on anything. But in church, my father points out other families seated in the front pews. He whispers— Those are the Buendias. Their daughters are visiting from abroad. They speak French and Spanish and they never fail to bring their parents gifts. I'm only ten, but it sounds like he's dropping hints. The new TV is installed in its place of honor in the living room; it has a wooden console with tambour sliding doors. My father sits in front of it late at night, laughing aloud at Bob Hope jokes in a way we don't see him habitually do, admiring how The Waltons remain wholesome through war and small-town tribulation. We don't call good night to one another as the lights go out in room after room, but after he's done with his shows, he shuffles around the house in his slippers, testing the locks then putting a heavy bar across the door.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
