Later that night,
I spy a new glass bird
perched on the coffee table.
I touch its thin wings,
trace the bright green swirls.
So light, smooth, cool
in my palm.
Mom emerges from the kitchen,
smiling, seeing me holding the bird.
Said she made it
for my future dorm room.
Colored it to look like
the Northern Lights.
I feel myself turn hollow,
holding this flightless bird.
I set it down.
Hard. Make it tremble.
Every day, she makes those animals
so delicately,
purposefully,
every day, adding distance and fractures
to our already broken family.
I ask Mom if she ever gets jealous of
what Dad has with James.
Tears shimmer in her hazel eyes.
But I keep going:
ask her why they even stayed married,
why she and Dad ever had kids.
|
I don’t wait for answers, |
just leave her there, |
flightless,
with that bird.