Truth

When my mother’s third husband died she put him

in an urn with her own name on it,

both of them entwined in a heart

labelled “soulmates”.

This doesn’t bother me the way you think.

Here’s a version of the truth (i) :

When he came to the house, thin as a sapling

with liquid eyes behind wire-framed glasses

I already loved him a bit.

He put his hand on the small of my mother‘s

back. There was a tremor there, a palsy

of love, and nerves, and age. Like they were coming home

from prom, giggling in the driveway,

bodies lit like kindling, a small fire

at my kitchen table.

version (ii):

His sons never invited my mother over.

One complained out loud about these

“sudden Chinese grandchildren

that loved him”

 

version (iii):

His sons always sat a couch distance

away. Their smiles so tight you could garrotte

a throat with them.

version (iv):

Of four children,

His daughter committed suicide

His son died of an overdose

 

version (v):

He fought in the war.

He drank.

version (vi):

In the last year of marriage he doesn’t remember

how to put on his seat belt, where his cane

has gone, what

he                      has

done

version (vii):

At a family event, still warm from fresh rolls

pulled from the oven, paper wrapping on the floor

like new snow and:

Why do you think my sister died?

Why do you think my brother overdosed?

and his hand, lightly over my mother’s

the way they lean into each other,

before he gets pulled into another game

of Candy Land with the kids.

version (viii):

His daughter at 13, the same age as my daughter now,

waking from sleep. She is sore

inside.

The house is a hand

over her mouth.

version (ix):

My mother washes his trembling

mouth in the hospital bed. Red Jello

wiped clean.

He holds her hand, his wrist shackled

with an IV and asks

Do I deserve this?

 

version (x):

 

He should be in jail for the things he did

version (xi):

His funeral, the urn with two names.

My mother, alone again. A small group of people

who didn’t know him

or didn’t know him enough.

She’s in the throes of grief, can’t believe

his sons didn’t come, doesn’t hear

the spaces in their breath

doesn’t want to know

why they’re not coming

version (xii):

He had PTSD

She holds it tight in her fist. My husband

was good. He was good to me. They don’t understand

that the war can make people different.

She doesn’t know anything

but their years together. She doesn’t want

to know, she can’t imagine.

The house was a muffled hand over

all of them. His son tells me

they have spent their lives

not telling anyone. My mother asks

them not to tell her.

version (xiii):

we are constructed by what we know

of others.

 

version (xiv):

The daughter, the sister, was a spitfire.

Eyes alight and mischievous and

beautiful and whole

and alive,

before.