Today you told me you figured it out:

the right way to die.

I wish I could word it some better way

coat it with a sugary glaze

worthy of the gas station doughnuts littering your backseat

gloss it over

like so many family conversations across the dinner table

glassy as Winnebago in late July

so we can play pretend its all smooth sailing.

I’d grown accustomed to this mask on my face

but on the sixth call this morning

you told me not to wear any makeup

“Nobody expects you to look like a Disney princess before 11 a.m.”

I had to relearn how to realize a real reaction

to the news you broke, casually as the cooling eggs on my plate.

I was used to a you who used to drop bombs on the daily

this time though, you hurled dynamite.

Of course I acted along

always the good little girl Mommy dearest & darling Daddy trained

to smile and nod, head bobbing mechanically on marionette strings.

Meanwhile, the rubble from your offhand explosion threatened to efface my carefully constructed facade.

Never one to rock the boat, I recited my next monosyllabic line

to which you coolly lobbed your next grenade.

I blame myself

not knowing the right reply to dramatic declarations

but serene suicidal statements take the cake.

Needless to say, I paid my own bill this time.