I remember wishing you would leave, 

if only for a little while— 

wishing for a lag in the yelling, 

the slamming of cabinets
and 
doors, 

the distinctive sound of a beer can being opened. 

Crack. Fizz. Silence.


 I remember the deafening silence

as I sat staring at your empty seat, 

wondering when you would return.


I remember knowing change was imminent 

when, astounded by the nurse’s bedside manner, 

she told me you were not alright and 

speeding was not encouraged but it was advised.


 I remember wishing you could come back,
 
if only for a little while.

For years I’d wished for things to change,
 
and for years I’ve wished I would have understood

that wishing can make you bitter,
 
silent— 

lost in remembering

hallmark holidays.

it was like any other holiday— 

a community affair. 

each child dropped a

little pre-made card onto the desk

of a peer. 

trite sayings they would later

take for granted—

be mine,

i love you. 

she hardly heard the excited 

buzz as she 

solemnly moved about the room—

wondering all the while

why mommy refused to be 

daddy’s valentine, and what

he would be like after

drinking the whole bottle 

of wine.