The house is cold. He doesn’t look at her, just sits hunched at the kitchen table, with the hood of his sweatshirt up: under cover. Her son. He is even thinner than when she left.
The stink of cigarettes. Something rotting in the dark of a cupboard and the sink is right to the top with dirty dishes, hardened strings of spaghetti, grease congealed in a pan. A still life. She could paint it on a wall of canvas: Moldy glasses big as barrels, their funhouse faces wavering beyond. Welcome Home.
–from “Night Navigation” by Ginnah Howard