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“Out of the goodness of
his heart” doesn’t ring true.
There
has to be a bigger “why”
than just to make me happy.
He never cared before.
The need to know is
a worm
slithering through my brain.
I tried to bring it up last
night, when he was fighting
his own sleep demons,
working
up a tobacco-infused night
sweat. Both of us tossing
worry, I asked, “Did you make
this trip for me or for you?”
His
thrashing stilled, like he
thought about feigning
dreamland. But then a low
sort of growl exhaled from his
core.
HE SAT UP IN BED
A dark silhouette against
backlit blinds. And once
he started to talk, it all
came spilling out. I’ve
spent the last fifteen
years hating your mother.
