Families Not Our Own

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.