The Recession
BY DANIELLE CADENA DEULEN
I feel like—he starts, rattling the silverware drawer to lift
a spoon, walk it to his coffee, stir—something’s against me.
He’s said this before. Our backyard grass, the color of
drought, is drowning in a downpour. Our plastic pool
is half-filled with rainwater, dirt, the tiny black flickering
of mosquito larvae. Someone should drain it. It’s been
eleven months of looking. He runs his hands through his
silver hair, shakes his head. The backdoor lock won’t latch.
There’s a crack in our bedroom window that I’m afraid
will splinter come winter, and the credit cards are maxed.
Mama, our children shout from another room, fighting
over a plastic toy we got from a drive-thru restaurant,
interrupting my calculations on how long we have before
foreclosure. I just feel like—his voice breaking—I’m not
worth anything anymore. I flinch when I hear the shatter of
the toy against our wall, then the wail of our youngest
whipping against my mind like a salt-storm. Someone
should keep the peace. Someone should cross the cold
kitchen linoleum to hold my husband. Someone should.
