Mom tells me there are some things
about all this I won’t understand
until I grow up.
Oh, that.
I hate when grown-ups say stuff like that.
Mom tells me part of the problem
was Dad losing his job
and getting discouraged. And moody.
And wanting time away.
“How much time?” I ask.
Mom shakes her head. “I just don’t know, honey.”
“So,” I say, “Dad will come back
when he’s had enough time away. Right?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I’m feeling sick. “Are you saying
you and Dad might get divorced?”
“We haven’t figured things out yet.”
“But you’re trying, aren’t you?” I say. “You’re
trying to figure things out?”
“Of course we are, Bindi.”
I clap my hands.
“Well, good then. Just make sure
you figure it out by Easter Sunday.”
I am running off to my room
before my mother has a chance
to tell me what
an eleven-year-old-kid thing
that is to say.