What I Remember of the Honeymoon

Lying on the cold bathroom floor
putting in the diaphragm
taking my time with it
knowing he’s in there waiting.
After a while, his voice
everything ok?

Asking if we can stop for coffee
on the way to the motel
knowing this will delay–
he, acquiescing
wanting to be gentle.

As we leave the reception, 
my mother kissing him on the temple
calling him “my son”.
He pleased at this welcome.

Long hours of driving
alone with the thoughts in my head.
Who knows where he was.

He buying postcards to send to his grandfather,
my deciding I was going on to my new life
adult and independent.

The revelation of fresh orange juice
on a winter-starved tongue.