Mom packed
all week,
folding and putting
clothes in suitcases,
wrapping keepsakes
in newspaper,
setting boxes
in the hallway,
Dad kicking them
as he went by.
“You’re not going
anywhere,” he said.
“Just put it all back.”
Mom kept packing.
She went to
the kitchen next,
close to where
me and my sister sat
doing homework,
me finishing
some high school essay
on “Jude the Obscure,”
Janie scratching out
her special ed math.
“What the hell you doin’?”
Dad loomed as Mom
emptied cupboards,
taking glasses,
bowls, and plates,
seizing silverware,
lowering the
green aluminum
frying pan
into a box
before clattering
saucepans and bakeware
on top.
“Keep your hands
off my stuff,” Dad said.
“Buy your own shit
if you’re so hell-bent
on moving out.”
Dad grabbed things
from boxes
as soon as Mom
put things in.
“I can take
what I want,” she said.
“It’s mine too.”
Dad wound a dish towel
into a rat tail,
snapping it across
her bare legs.
“Hell you can.”
Mom dodged.
He kept whipping,
coming closer.
“Stop it,” she said.
Dad grabbed
the back of her hair.
He pushed her down
toward the open box,
his mouth to her ear,
telling her
to put things back,
that none of it
was hers,
that he paid for everything
with his blood, sweat,
and tears.
“Let go.”
Mom squirmed.
She winced.
She drew back
an elbow,
slamming him
in the gut.
“Goddamnit.”
Dad let go,
clutching his stomach.
Mom crawled
then stumbled away,
running outside,
her skirt fluttering,
her legs buckling
as she fell hands first
onto the grass,
getting up,
her knees stained.
“Get back here.”
Dad yelled through
the window
as Mom zig-zagged
into the road,
stopping mid-way
when a car honked
and whizzed by.
“Real good,” Dad shouted.
“Get yourself killed now.”
Mom raced
to her friend’s bungalow,
banging on the door.
Charlotte answered,
gathering Mom in,
the door slowly closing,
eclipsing their silhouettes.
“I’m going, too.”
Janie bolted up,
the chair tipping over
as she lumbered out.
I called after her,
telling her no,
that Mom would
be back.
“Let her go,” Dad said.
“Both of them.”
Dad righted the chair
and sat down.
He rapped the table,
then splayed
his hands flat.
“What the hell’s
wrong with her?”
Dad’s cheeks pulsed.
He went on,
saying he worked
his ass off
to get her things,
to keep a roof
over her head,
to show her
he loved her,
only to have her
go off and be
some kind-of
women’s libber.
“It’s that Charlotte,” he said.
“Feeding her all that crap.
That’s what it is.
You’ll see.
She’ll be back
She’ll come
to her senses.”
