In Dependence

#"In Dependence"  

There were days when the snow
smothered the house clear on up
to the second story windows.
 
Days when the wind shrieked at our door
like one of your crazy ex-girlfriends,
driven mad by separation and
 
the betrayal of endings.
The house seemed to become
a haven for ill tempered spirits–
 
the one who smelled of Grandpa's cologne
and clove cigarettes, the one who flicked
the television set on and off and on and off and on
 
as if bored of being dead. The one who
always broke something large in the kitchen,
something heavy and expensive and made of glass,
 
like a chandelier or museum vase
but only when we were in the other room
and not paying attention.
 
The one who showed me things:
Crane Bridge during a hailstorm,
a pig-faced man with hands like beanbags,
 
the expression on your face
that day in April
when you told me it was over.
 
There were days I welcomed that snowfall.
I need you to understand,
it wasn't a bad house.
 
It was often bright and cheery,
and full of music, especially on Saturdays
when I taught lessons by the back window–
 
the one that looked out into our rose garden
where our stone lions lived (Leo and Leroy),
twin brothers, covered in lichen and moonflower vines,
 
awaiting the brush of my garden-gloved hand
and a scrape of the trowel. Patient.
As I never was.
 
On those days, I learned to lie to you.
I pinned my lips up in a crescent moon
and made you hot chocolate
 
with mini marshmallows,
and baked a scone
and lightly dusted it with powdered sugar
 
while you paced the living room
like a caged pitbull.
I sipped my tea whenever I felt
 
the smile slipping.
And you never noticed, or if you did,
you never said anything.
 
Then the slow snow pushed all the air
out of our house til our breathing shallowed,
and the scones cooled on the counter, uneaten.

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she said a thing... | ...and then she said another.