It was a Thursday morning.
And unlike Wednesday,
I knew where I was going
shouldn’t be somewhere
I wanted to go, but I did.
Go. I wanted to leave this house
and this bustling town of drunks
and stochastic manipulation.
Besides, I wasn’t what her new
husband wanted, and he said
she needed to pick.
I got the short end of the stick.
I didn’t know the route, and anyway,
anywhere would be better than here.
I slept with my eyes glued
to the ceiling; I blinked,
only to move drops rolling
off my cheeks to dampen
a pillow of torn decision.
I was a kid back then,
back in ‘93.
I packed the few changes
of clothes I had in a dark bag.
It was by the front door.
A caseworker knocked on the door.
It was my cue to hit the road.
I looked at Mom with a blank stare.
Mom smiled.
It was the first time
that I’d seen her smile;
the day I went to a foster home.
Looking back, I was happy
that she could smile about
something even if it hurt me.
Why I recall, I don’t know,
but the baseboard heater
warmed the living room.
Mom allowed no heat
in my room.
I slept under
three comforters
in the winter.
I left as Mom waved
in that blue Subaru
thirty years ago;
and I left Mom’s funeral,
holding Lori, my wife’s warm hand.
Lori asked if I’d be okay.
I smiled at her.
Lori gave me an empathetic glance
and stroked my arm.
I turned the key, and the truck engine
hummed to life,
and our life was just warming up.