you know the type...

year was: 1987.

winter. mother went away, for awhile. vacation. there, she threw pottery. shaped mud-flecked clay into masks with her hands.

there, she strung bracelets,
opalescent glass beads
stacked on invisible thread.
mother knew how to tie
all types of knots.

she liked to draw on paper
with charcoal and
pastels.

it calmed her.

she did not call home, & we were not allowed to visit.


now, 2006.

"i finished rinsing my hair, and i turned off the water. i pulled back the curtain and reached for the towel. i dried myself. i put on my bathrobe, and i tied it closed, with a bow. then i sank down into the bottom of the tub, which was still wet, and i cried. i can't say how long i was there for, but it was hours. my skin was like ice."

she touches my arm, while we are walking.
her words are soft, uneasy with guilt:


"i hope i didn't pass it into you..."

despite a lackluster budget, both mother and father felt pressed to show the children what existed outside of suburbia. and so they traveled: roadtrips, mostly. mother packed meals of sandwiches: tuna on white, peanut butter on rye. ham on thick, kaiser rolls, which father ate while driving: steering wheel pressed with his knee.

"look, boys-and-girls, at our family, out enjoying the road. out enjoying the country. we are a wonderful family, aren't we, boys-and-girls? and fortunate, too, having each other and these big, open spaces at our immediate disposal? aren't we lucky, dear children?"

"oh yes father! we surely, we certainly, are!"