Remembering Nadja

I have to catch my breath and remind myself that this is real life. Among the chaos of the house, the clutter, the garbage...my room had remained untouched. I had never left...but I've relocated. This is no longer my home.

But for a moment I see myself 8 years old in a hand-me-down Looney Toons t-shirt. I'm drawing pictures on the floor in an old notebook. My sister would save pages for me to draw on, we couldn't afford to spend money on extra paper, just so I could draw.

She told me about these places around the world that she would read about. In her literature class there was a mysterious woman named Nadja, who lived in a place called Paris.

"What's Paris?"
"It's a city..."
"I want to go!"
"You can't it's in a different country."
"Where?"
"France...Nadja is in France. Nadja is beautiful. She's also mad."
"Why is she mad?"
"I don't know."

The picture I drew of Nadja is still on the wall. I set my bags down and walk back out into the living room...if you could even call it that. He hasn't moved.

"Are you hungry, Dad?"

He remains silent.

"Well I'm gonna go to the market and get some things."

As I walk past him to the door I notice something in his hand. From where I stand I can tell it's a picture...its a picture of our family. Everyone's face has been scratched out...except mine.