The Phantom Drum

Her mother is by the door, impatient, fidgeting with her keys
She yells to her daughter to hurry
The teenager screams back, "I'm coming!"
She's aggravated, she wanted to take this life slow
"Stop coming and come," the mutters distractedly beneath her breath
The girl's father is by the window
His catatonic stare taking in the patchwork of people walking along, unhurried,
Each too consumed with their own lives to notice the cataclysm going on inside his own recently painted house
The girl, up in her room, slams her poster- covered door, and the walls tremble with the aftershock
Inside her room, the girl slowly turns around to face her life
She walks over to her beaten and handed down stereo and turns the volume up to max
Returning to the door, she leans her back against it and gradually slides down into a sitting position with a torn sigh
In resignation she cradles her head in her stained hands, a collage of color
Heavy metal and classic rock screams in her head
Her mind protesting the onslaught
The wall is shaking, as well
She remembers another time when they would shake in unison with the restless drum- playing of her brother in the next room
Blocking out the frantic barking of her German Shepherd, her mother's insistent yell, and the obstreperous silence of her father,
She zones in on the addictive beat of the phantom drum, the chaotic and rhythmic pulse of the phantom drum
And breathes . . .