“Yes,” you yell, and clearly your hearing is better than mine. “The usual.”
“Oh,” I say and I close the refrigerator. “Actually, I have plans,” I tell you, and we’re yelling back and forth when yelling was something we said we’d never do. Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. Rumi said that.
Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. But you aren’t thinking about Rumi or rain or flowers. You’re a snake poised to strike. I can tell by the look you’re giving me. It could kill, and apparently I was wrong before. You can fight in front of kids.
“Go play—” I tell them making sure my voice has a hard edge to it. Like their mother, they don’t budge “Out of the kitchen—” I order. “Or I’m taking your iPads to work with me tomorrow.
