Questions

May I ask you something, mother; why don't I have a brother or sister? Mother, did I make you sad? Your eyes are tearfully ironclad, refusing to see my curious face like black polyester covering lace. “I can't have children anymore,” you say, but mother, when did you make lying child's play? Dad said something similar, too, just diverted answers that weren't true; will your replies ever change as I grow up, quiet and strange? Dad, are you going to say it now, while I’m blaring my music banshee-loud like hardened, rusty loneliness crying out to thunder clouds? “If so, then tell me why,” I wish as you heave a laden sigh. “You were supposed to have two older siblings, but they never,” you utter, agonized like scorched kindling burned by grief. Your unspoken words, heard church bell clear: You meant a miscarriage, right?