He hands me a postcard of the Uffizi Gallery.
He describes the art he saw.
He says he thinks I have talent!
And that I should see great paintings,
the masterpieces.
I feel close to him when he speaks like this
because, from his lively green eyes,
I believe he really means it.
But my skin prickles:
He probably should be saying
some of this to my mother.
I want to brag to her,
“See, Mom? Dad thinks of me, not you!
Why? Because you’re a shrew!
Which is why he loves to talk to me.
Why he invites me places!”
Then I notice her face: incredibly downhearted.
I get an unusual pang for her.
I don’t say my truth.
That never works out.