Infidelity Killed the Cat
I often reminisce
about the times my parents
kissed. And laughed.
And slept in the same room.
I think of those times
my dad looked in my eyes and told me
I looked just like my mother.
I was nine when he stopped
saying those things,
and I was nine when she stopped
wearing her ring. And they both stopped
speaking
in perpetual hyperbole.
She wasn’t always going to be there
like the scar on his nose.
He wasn’t going to love her
until the mountains blew like leaves.
He wasn’t her every thought. She wasn’t his.
And that’s okay.
It’s okay.
I just can’t help but wonder
if he still thinks of her when he looks at
me. Perhaps he sees the pastor who practiced
what he didn’t preach.
Maybe he sees infidelity. And deceit.
And everything my mother carried with her.
Maybe every glimpse is a stitch ripped out
of his once healing but now bleeding heart,
and every glance resurrects the pain
of losing an unparalleled love.
But I am not her mistakes.
I am mine.
And he will see me for the things that
I am
rather than the things that
she used to be.