Mother's in the backyard, burning off Daddy's goods. Old love letters. His collection of Hemingway, declarations of manhood crinkling, dissolving. She releases each item with fury, grace.
"Good riddance," she says. "Promise me sweetheart, you won't be like that. Your father thought running off was romantic."
"Yes Mama," I say. I don't know what my future looks like frankly.
I see myself as an ongoing puzzle, Daddy and Mother contributing small, unique pieces to it. Daddy's confidence. Mother's gift for words. Now Daddy's missing.
She hugs me, keeps releasing things, past erased, even as questions rise into the vast night sky.
"Good riddance," she says. "Promise me sweetheart, you won't be like that. Your father thought running off was romantic."
"Yes Mama," I say. I don't know what my future looks like frankly.
I see myself as an ongoing puzzle, Daddy and Mother contributing small, unique pieces to it. Daddy's confidence. Mother's gift for words. Now Daddy's missing.
She hugs me, keeps releasing things, past erased, even as questions rise into the vast night sky.
