DEAR MOTHER,

I remember as a child,
watching the way father would
try to wrap his arms around your waist.
You’d roll your eyes and pull away
as if nothing were as important as
washing the same clean plate over again,
like a guilty woman bathing herself
in holy water to wash away her sins.

I remember being eleven,
watching you pull away once more.
It was the night you’d leave him in as many
pieces as the plate you’d throw
at the wall, shattering across
the kitchen floor for me to clean up
and try to reassemble for the years to come.

We should have seen it coming.

With all the shards picked up and in place
I look back and I see rather than coming apart,
we had come together,
sans you.