but a poetry writing prompt has released
a childhood memory; incidents
that barely registered at the time.
A morsel of my mom’s inner life
that I might bite into and taste bitterness
like a slow melt on the back of my tongue.

Laced through the recall of our upstairs dormer
where my sister concocted an entire
make-believe family for me and read me
Debbie and Her Nap, my favorite,
there was the handsome, older guy
from across the street
drinking coffee in the kitchen with my mom.
There were whispered phone calls
that seemed odd,
that I was not curious enough to question.
There were afternoons at the babysitters.

Once first grade started, I never wondered
what my mom did all day.  I wonder if my dad did. 
I can picture the confrontation; my dad giving her
an ultimatum, quietly, behind closed doors,
after we kids were in bed.
No scandal, no divorce.
My parents’ day-faces revealing nothing.