This time when I come in,
April’s not waiting at the door.
She’s still on the couch,
watching TV, tissues all around.
They sit me down again.
This time, at the dining room table,
by myself.
Mom says how dare I
walk out on our family,
on something
so serious.
I almost laugh in her face:
Were we not serious enough?
Is that why you walked out on us?
Mom says what’s done is done,
now is the time
for truth, family togetherness.
She says they know I went to Massachusetts,
they’ve decided that between that and running away just now,
I’m grounded again.
Suddenly she’s a disciplinarian. A real parent.
Dad says he knows I’m upset,
I have a right to be,
but he has lots of time left, don’t worry.
As if it’s possible not to.
I mumble sorry,
ask him how he’s feeling.
He says he’s been better, but he’s okay.
I say that’s good,
though I know he’s lying.
An awkward silence,
the air hangs heavy,
I head to my room,
leave them there,
her, him
all masks off,
no more lying or hiding
their brand of togetherness,
the signs and marks
of who they really are.