Poetry

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He drove you to the airport, came home,
sat on the couch, looked into my eyes, and said
“Thank you for everything.”

Which left me wondering if I had done anything at all
other than hold my tongue at the appropriate moment,
serve another coffee, another hot supper,
engage in another verbal volley to offset your negative remarks,
or say ‘uh-huh’ in response to your rhetorical babbling.
Did I really do anything?

OK, I did stifle resentment and disbelief just below the surface,
like when I dressed for Christmas dinner, with a splash of festive femininity,
and was greeted downstairs with, “Are you going somewhere?”
rather than even a small compliment, human to human.
“Jeez! Did you just %$#%$#*! say that?” I thought but didn’t voice,
instead letting the hurt linger in my damp eyes while
I mashed potatoes, basted the fowl one last time in 350 degree hot oil.
Did you know what pierced my heart --
the desire to lash out, get in your face, hurt you back?
And there were times when I did… sort of. Did you hear that bit of sarcasm when
I let it leak? But then that would take some emotional intelligence on your part.

So no, I don’t feel like I deserve any thanks --
nor do I want any.
I’d rather take a stiff chalk brush and wipe your most recent scribblings
from the blackboard of my familial life.

Your plane has taken off by now, because
Christmas is over and you are on your way home.

We are still here searching for normal,
…the day after.

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