He was supposed to be home by 8,
my mother said. Lukewarm leftover lasagna waited.
A half hour went by.

She put his plate in the microwave,
and neatly placed a napkin over
to ensure it would last until later. 

After bath time and after Anna was tucked,
she angrily switched on a protesting dryer,
then the dishwasher. 

Two slow churning engines
they seemed to huff 
with disappointment too. 

I escaped into my room
and turned up my favorite jaded punk band.
I know how this goes next.

In an hour or so, the garage door
would rise. Hopefully
not waking my sister.

The slam of the door then.
The clumsy shuffling up the steps.
If only our stairs were carpeted. 

Mother will try to stay hushed,
but despite my earbuds,
I can still hear the choke in her voice.

A few loud bangs on the wall
and a shattered china plate.
Pitches that go up, then fall.

No, I will not miss him at all.