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Todd James Pierce

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Leaving

Though twenty years have passed
since my mother moved into the den,
I still see her carrying dresses folded
over her arm and stacking them,
like flimsy, deflated bodies
on the pull-out bed we saved for guests.

We are children,
my sister and I, and don’t know
what to do, except play another game
of cards as the light
of our childhood drains from the room
and is replaced by dusk.

Needless to say, we don’t understand
why our parents want separate rooms.
Already we’ve found broken china
mixed with forgotten toys
and a photo frame webbed with glass.
We’ve heard our mother yell,
“It still hurts,” though don’t know
what this means, nor are we able
to ask. We are small, helpless creatures,
unable to change the ashy mood
settling over us. Instead

we sit quietly and pretend
we are the family we were
last summer or the summer before.
When our mother has finished moving,
we present our cautious faces
to her and hope she doesn’t cry. After
she hugs us and says everything
is fine, we visit our father,
who stands at the window, hands locked
behind his back. Without turning,
he tells us everything is fine as well.

 

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