How Many Times

No matter how many times I try I can't stop my father from walking into my sister's room and I can't see any better, leaning from here to look in his eyes. It's dark in the hall and everyone's sleeping. This is the past where everything is perfect already and nothing changes, where the water glass falls to the bathroom floor and bounces once before breaking. Nothing. Not the small sound my sister makes, turning over, not the thump of the dog's tail when he opens one eye to see him stumbling back to bed still drunk, a little bewildered. This is exactly as I knew it would be. And if I whisper her name, hissing a warning, I've been doing that for years now, and still the dog startles and growls until he sees it's our father, and still the door opens, and she makes that small oh turning over.

—Marie Howe