Malcolm Wicks

Don’t Forget

And there goes Mama again, early Sunday morning, scrubbing the floors until they’re as clean as our diet, not that we had much groceries to choose from anyway. Rent always played the competitive edge in our small studio apartment, winning an award each time that grumpy old man stopped by with his gigantic ink pen and clipboard making beats singing; “Oh Mr. and Mrs. Hope, please don’t tell me we’re feeling hopeless again.” As he approached our front door, I could hear the neighbors laughing out loud from the opposite end of the hallway. “Hahaha well, would you look at them, all strung out on hope!” Some of their jokes were insulting, but we’d ignore them, even in passing. Mama would tell me to put my headphones on or go study on the chromebook. “We need a few extra weeks Mr. Banks; we are struggling during this pandemic,” I overheard Mama say. “I’ve been patient long enough Mr. and Mrs. Ho…wait, where is your husband? Let me guess, out looking for work again huh?”