Good memories: made-up games, summer friends, the world is your oyster.

Bad ones: voices of thunder and spite spilling out of parents’ mouths.

 

Then, those so unforgettable and tragic that they become blanketed by a softening fog,

Still in your mind but hidden

From immediate view.

 

Sunday night, Dad leaves the dinner table,

Mom follows silently.

Brother and I remain,

Steaks meticulously grilled just minutes before.

 

A body-length mirror that was once a portal to a future world: Mom’s fanciest shoes, dresses, and jewelry

Make me a princess, an elite socialite, a sharp-dressed businesswoman in the mirror.

Tonight in the reflection is Dad wincing in pain.

Spots on his abdomen, poked, pinched, examined.

 

And then a tone not menacing,

Nor ominous, but still laden with a quiet anxiety: “We’re taking Dad to the hospital.”

 

The waiting room is not smells, sounds, sights; it is when is Dad coming out

Of the room with blinds covering the window

And a shut door.

 

Dad is okay and we come home to a quiet house, cold dinners

Left unsupervised and unfinished on the kitchen table.

Four people, not three,

One merely had kidney stones in his body.