When my mother said the word divorce
in response to my asking where my father
was—after she’d said, he won’t be back,
I asked what the word meant, because
the closest association I could make to divorce
was diving horse, an image to make sense
of fairytale magic plunging from its own
dead weight. That day, having come home
from school where my father usually
asked what I’d learned—I learned
I knew little—me, bedside—she, propped
by pillows, reading, barely looking up
said, It means he’s never coming back.
I remember the whirl of confusion,
as if I’d heard a story read too fast
to comprehend its meaning—trying
to figure out how my father could
make such an exit—no goodbye—
the way a child might wonder how
the horse climbed so high
to take its spectacular dive.
Photo Credit: Preben Gammelmark via Creative Commons
