A memory.

I learned to say the word shit in a nursery rhyme my dad would always say to me even before I knew it was wrong. And I guess it wasn’t wrong - because if Dad said it, then I could say it.

I can’t remember what it was that I touched. But the song is etched in my head, occasionally bringing me joy, but I could never understand why I got shushed when I said shit. It rhymed with six, and it was dad’s, so what’s the big deal?

“One, two, that’s da’y’s shoe. Three foe, that’s da’y’s note. Five, six, that’s da’y’s shit. Seven, eight, that’s da’y’s plate. Nine, ten, don’t touch it again.”

Nowadays, I’m taller than him. I can’t fit his shoes anymore. We don’t watch tv, because we’re so busy arguing about why we don’t spend time together. We are poor, so what we have is shitty and cheap and not worth taking anyways. He doesn’t finish his meals, and I’m not as hungry as before myself.

But I don’t wanna have to hug you goodbye.