Dad vs. Mom

I have these wrist guards that, on my more imaginative days, turn me into a cyborg killing machine. (If you want to be anal, replace “killing” with “typing” and “cyborg” with “dweeb”.) I lost the left wrist guard a month ago, which is why I’ve been typing fewer letter unitz with a, s, d, and f in them.

Yesterday, I found my left wrist guard…covered with leaves at the bottom of my hiking backpack. (Don’t ask). I cannot prove this, but I am convinced that this is the exact moment that, as my left wrist quivered in anticipation of the pain-free days ahead, my right wrist guard, either out of jealousy or fear of working with his ex-lover, curled up into a ball and disappeared.

I emptied my laundry basket, shook my bedsheets, and lifted the floorboards. He’s gone. My memories of him, the words we typed, the buttons we clicked, are already fading.

My right wrist guard’s sudden absence, coupled with my left wrist guard’s ability to be flipped inside out, left me with a difficult decision.

Dad vs. Mom, grab vs. pull, see vs. look, Steve Case vs. Polly + Pippin, secret vs. ploy, gas vs. pony milk, cabbage vs. yummy, beets vs. moon. Icicle torn apart, nose split in two.

In the end, Mom won. Sorry Dad. You’re a deadbeat.