The zoo

Going to see you reminds me of going to the zoo, though one is much more enjoyable. Going to the zoo doesn’t make me feel anxious the whole way there. It doesn’t involve taking off my shoes and all my jewelry to walk through a giant metal detector. I don’t have to sit and wait in a cold room for thirty minutes for the animals to arrive. But I have to remind myself this isn’t the zoo— it’s a prison, no matter the similarities. I sit and stare at you through a thick piece of glass, wondering how you and the animals are alike: strange, trapped, unpredictable, and dangerous. You hardly ever speak a word to me, because just like the animals, you don’t care that I’m here. Being at the zoo doesn’t make me cry. It doesn’t leave me feeling empty and confused for days. Being at the zoo makes me happy, because I get to see things I don’t see very often— though I guess I don’t get to see you very often either. But at least at the zoo the animals don’t pretend to know me. They don’t guess my birthday wrong, and they don’t ask about what happened to me when I was 13. You’re really nothing more than a stranger that I call dad. And when I leave, I don’t look back— I think I’d rather go back to the zoo.