your mother told you that when your father left
the world had stopped spinning on its tilted axis
for one split second;
she told you that her lungs had stopped breathing
and her heart had stopped beating
all at once;
she told you that when she opened his letter
she truly believed that this was the end of life as she knew it.
and for a moment, she said,
it was.

but there is more to a woman, she said,
than a man’s tired regret and half-hearted goodbye
your mother had told you that the world never really ends
not when there are cardboard mistakes
lined on the sidewalk outside your house,
boxes of souvenirs your father wanted more than he wanted you.
your heart will never stop beating so young, she said
not until you are eighty on a bed after a life
well-lived, well-loved, well-laughed.
because damn it, she said with a slur,
there is more to life than a half-assed love story cut too soon.

there’s got to be, she said.
there’s got to be, she urged.

because you were seven years old when your father left
and there is not much you remember of him.
you imagine his shadow, six foot tall and skinny like you,
creeping out of your life so effortlessly,
breaking your mother’s heart so seamlessly.
you imagine his car speeding away in the night
coughing exhaust like he coughs up cigarettes,
driving and driving for miles and miles
until there are gas station receipts from boston and los angeles at the bottom of his bag.

your father will never come back;
you and your mother both know this.
but there’s too much to life that needs to be lived.
that is what your mother tells you.
there’s too much to life than hating the man of the year.
places to see, people to meet, food to be eaten.
there’s too much to life than this, she says,
she urges with so much conviction,
it nearly stings.

your mother loves you where your father didn’t love enough
you know this like you know the sky is blue but not really
but sometimes
you catch her mind drifting out the open window,
as her hands scrub two plates, two forks, two spoons,
and you wonder if your mother is angry that he dared to leave,
or if your mother is angry that he dared to leave first.