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it started with a court-ordered visit.
The judge had a God complex.
I guess for once she’s right.
Was it just last summer?
He started an avalanche.
My mom enjoys discussing
her daughter’s downhill slide.
It swallowed her whole.
I still wore pleated skirts, lipgloss.
Crooked bangs defined my style.
Could I have saved her?
My mom often outlines her first
marriage, its bitter amen. Interested?
I was too young, clueless.
I hadn’t seen Dad in eight years.
No calls. No cards. No presents.
He was a self-serving bastard.
My mom, warrior goddess, threw
down the gauntlet when he phoned.
He played the prodigal trump card.
I begged. Pouted. Plotted. Cajoled.
I was six again, adoring Daddy.
What the hell gave him that right?
My mom gave a detailed run-down
of his varied bad habits.
Contrite was not his style.
I promised. Swore. Crossed my heart.
Recited the D.A.R.E. pledge verbatim.
How could she love him so much?
My mom relented, kissed me
