Plathological

"you don't know what you have in your hands," my father, re my art.

My parents are here and my place has turned into alcoholic central. As I write this my parents are passed out on the floor, my father in black cords and some form of green belt, my mother in my clock shirt--the one with all the frozen time pieces on it. For two days we’ve been drinking past our weight and buying pink, wing-backed chairs from North Carolina. Last night my father pulled out a rosary from somewhere on his person and held it out in the air between us, asked if I know what it is that I do. Not knowing what he meant by that showing all over my face he then went on to say that I stole that rosary when I was five. He decided to keep it because he thought this stolen rosary would guide him. Earlier in the night, I put the candle back on the table, since I noticed it had been set on the floor. “There was a reason I put this light on the floor,” My father said. “It’s direct light. This light is forward light. It’s the light from my job. Welding is light.” I said I liked welding and kept it on the table and that's when my father said I didn't know what I had in my hands, and my mother said, "She has nothing in her hands. She has nothing. She is empty handed." She spent the rest of the night coming up with contradictions while peeing, saying things to my father or me like, "You know what she is. She is one who has imagination." And, "She's not strange. You just don't understand." And, "You will take amazing photos. I promise you." I was talked about all night as if I wasn't even there. I had to ask my father the Polish word for brave because I had at that moment forgotten it and wanted to say something about my mother to her face. Though I didn't mean to make her cry more than she already was.