The cluttered dining room table,
a white-blank college essay.
April trots past with her
bottles and crystals.
Dad in the living room with James,
watching a documentary
on an archaeological dig in Mexico.
I return to the essay questions.
Try option one.
How would you describe the defining aspect of your identity?
I type on the blank page:
My dad was my mentor. My identity was formed by watching him.
April stands in front of the TV,
tells them about herbs, crystals,
Dad and James smile at her, touched.
I delete.
Start over.
James reads a label.
Dad says he’s working with the best doctors in the city.
I write:
I used to like living in the skies of Manhattan. I identified myself as a proud New Yorker.
April gets teary,
says she’s not giving up, this could save him,
Gloria has helped others.
Delete again.
They say they’ll think about it.
Them.
Like they are their own team.
Their own family.
April leaves everything on the table in front of them.
I turn back to the blank page,
punch the keys hard:
Identity is not a fixed thing, but something that evolves over time. Like an excavation, you never know what you might uncover about yourself or those around you. What might change you, forever. Beyond your own control.
I highlight the paragraph.
Shrink the font,
make it invisible.
As Dad and James turn their eyes back
to the TV,
I shut down my computer,
pick up the keyboard, slam it down,
don’t press save.
The archaeologists dust dirt from bones.