Sometimes, the subtle
disappointments
hurt the soul
with the most
resounding consistency.
For me, it was my father’s
little broken promises
that crack on pavement
like little glass figurines
that no one can hear, but me.
How, at almost 40,
when I should feel objectively
and not subjectively
like a child, during
our short conversations
do I revert to
a disappointed
twelve-year-old
in her mom’s
Mickey Mouse
maternity tee shirt
asking her dad
to come play outside
because her sisters
are younger, and of course
annoying.
I’m writing this at 6:40
in the morning.
My husband is strutting
around the kitchen,
purposefully,
making 8 o’clock coffee,
with the pour over
in his blindingly hideous
red Bills sweatshirt.
“Now that is a laugh
I love. Wait a minute,
are you poking fun
at me in this one?”
“No….”
“Let’s go back to Lake Lure
this summer.”
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