Glasses were thrown and shattered in our shiny linoleum kitchen. My mother and father were like stormy ocean waves, angry and god-like, thrashing around until finally settling when the grey clouds cleared. It was our first day of school, my first day of 9th grade, my brother Will's first day of first grade, and my sister, Lola's first day of kindergarten. I had taken it upon myself to clean up the shards, and silently waited in my room until the bus arrived.
Ten minutes later, my mom called us out on the porch. One by one, we ducked out the house, to meet my mother, who seemed to already have forgotten the flying words and shattered glass she had bruised the floor with. My father was gone, undoubtedly on Rose street's Browery's Pub, sipping a whiskey, glassy eyed and seething. Camera in hand, and mascara stained cheeks, she placed us each in order, like ducklings, and was satisfied. "Smile!" She said.