Annabelle
It funny to think that Christopher
is the same age
as my father was
when he fathered me.
I try to picture Christopher as a dad,
pushing a stroller,
changing a diaper,
playing this little piggy,
All the things my father never did
with me, because
he never even knew
that I’d been born.
I wonder if it’s as strange for him
as it is for me, not knowing
what I look like
or who I am, but
It can’t be. Since he doesn’t
know about me, he doesn’t
scan the faces of sixteen-
year-old girls, hoping to find me.
It must have been hard
for my mom to hide
being pregnant
from my father.
Even though he didn’t go to her school,
he’d still have been around town,
at movies, or restaurants,
or the park.
Did she jump behind mailboxes or
into stores to avoid him, or did
she just walk by and pretend
not to know him?
She told me she barely knew him
so maybe she didn’t need to
hide, maybe he wouldn’t
have recognized her.
If so, the big bump in her belly was
nothing to him, a meaningless
shape, something he’d
look right past.
That scenario bothers me the most.
I prefer to picture him stopping
and staring, his mouth
falling open,
His conscience prickling him,
every thought in his head
turning toward the
reality of me,
There inside my mother’s womb,
curled up sucking my little
thumb, my face already
resembling his.