Popped eye, Christmas lights Tequila and lime, hairpin; hope

My father and I sitting in the greyhound station

For the umpteenth x’s 10 time,

He’s falling asleep and I am nervous because

I already miss him because

The city and childhood are two very far apart things because

This year my mom didn’t call,

And us

My sister and me, we

For some reason

Are still surprised.

Listen.

I don’t care to admit that it hurts. But the shock of remembering

That I have forgotten the sound of her voice

Will sting.

In the car my father said,

You have to stop blaming her.

You have to stop living your life like it isn’t yours

Like it’s some sort of effect

To her cause.

You are not your mother.

I cannot recall ever being this sad, this relieved,

To hear such truth.