History of Forgetting

My parents did it for the kids
until my mother called it quits
complaining of corporate wife-dom
at too many company barbeques.
She almost passed for Southern-charmed,
her hairsprayed bouffant so hard
flies could walk on it.

She once said
she should not have had kids
and I forgave her
on the afternoon of her funeral.
At her double-wide
in the north Georgia mountains,
I heard her voice in the August air,
whispering — urgent —
I’ve been waiting for you.

I watched as
a tiger swallowtail lifted
on what little air there was.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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