As a way to show the other spectrum of writer’s block, here’s a snippet of what came out of yesterday’s daddy issues:
When my mother pulls our rumbling white Bronco up to the garage, my sister gets out without being asked and wrenches the door upward, its jaws squeaking and cracking as it prepares to swallow the chalky white pill. For the last time, my father gets out of a car and climbs the set of stairs leading up to our lemon yellow house, my mother guiding him on one side, a rolling intravenous stand on the other. She peels the screen door open like baleen, holding it open with her hip as she unlocks the front door, letting it lap all of us in. He waits as my mother strips the cushions off the woolen, brown couch in the living room and rips out the tongue of spring and mattress that is coiled inside. When the sheets are taut and pillows propped, she guides him over and lays him down, checking the connections and levels on the I-V stand, its tubes like veins escaping the rot that is growing in the middle of his body. She is a registered nurse and so she is quick, thorough, letting habit hide the fact that she’s placing her husband on his deathbed.