My mind ran through the backdoor of my childhood home and it knocked over the jar that my mother loved yet she paid no thoughts to it. She had busied herself in the kitchen trying to cover the stench of the man who had visited during naptime. She painted the house with the aromatic smells of the dinner that my father would burst through the door and expect after his flight home. My mind retreats into the corner as he combusts while he finds the remnants of the intruder in the bed he laid. It numbs as he bubbles over in tears and shakes with violent twists, declaring thievery.