Notice Richard Larson I said to him, I wonder when you’ll notice. I stretched. I reached for the sky. He said, Notice what? That I’m gone. He sighed. He set down his newspaper, grudgingly turning away from the war. If he had glasses, they would be resting low on his nose, and he would be looking at me over the rims. But he didn’t have glasses. He didn’t have anything. At least, he didn’t have me. Not anymore. Don’t be silly, he said. You’re right here. I got out of bed. The mattress sagged to one side, to his side of the bed. Even when I was in bed with him, it was never balanced. He was just so much bigger. I was always on an angle, falling downhill into his body. Tumbling, grasping, colliding, and then being repelled. I said, I’m somewhere else. I turned on my computer, checked my email. I looked at a picture, sent by my mother, of a cat flying through the air, wearing a little red cape. I said, I’m far away. I’m soaring. I put my arms out at my sides. I made a whirring noise, like a motor. He said, What is this about? I said, I can see my house from here. I said, The world is so beautiful when seen from above. I stopped whirring. I came to a halt. I said, I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t know who I am. He crossed his legs beneath the sheets and leaned forward. I did not see him do this, since my back was to him, but I heard him, and he always does it like that, so I’m sure that’s what he was doing. He said, Then who do you feel like? I said, The president of the United States. And Howard Hughes. I feel like a cross between the president of the United States and Howard Hughes. The president meets Howard Hughes! I don’t get it, he said. I said, I feel like I’m in a museum. And I have to be really quiet. So people can study me. Like we’re all sitting around watching each other, being really quiet. Seeing if anything will change. Maybe taking some notes. He said, You don’t have to be quiet. But I do. I have to be quiet. We all do. We have to just sit here. Even though I wanted to rev my engine, spin my wheels, leave him in the dust. Finally make some noise. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, he said. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, I repeated, mocking him. Why are you acting like this? I wanted to say, Because I hate you and I don’t I don’t I don’t want to be here anymore, but it came out as, Your mom. Are you joking? I said, Is your mom joking? I wouldn’t look at him. He said, Ha ha, I don’t get it. I suddenly grew wings. I flexed them, testing them out. I flapped them rapidly, rising, rising. They were beautiful, but I knew he wouldn’t notice. Your mom doesn’t get it, I said. I closed my eyes. I wanted him to get angry, to throw the newspaper at me. I wanted it to hit me, hard. I would ride it like a magic carpet out of the window into Brooklyn, into the sky. He was disappointed in me. I was disappointed in myself. I was making fun of his mom, even though she had died last year from lung cancer; a long, slow death in Phoenix, where he sat with her until it happened. Spending time away from home, becoming a new person, a person who cried sometimes while brushing his teeth, watched When Harry Met Sally over and over again. A person I didn’t know. But he didn’t throw the newspaper at me. He didn’t do anything. Right now, he said. What? I just noticed.