After Taking Me Home
Darkness lowered as we drove across town, back to your childhood home. Your father at the counter banged his knife. What do you see in him? he said to me of you. The boy’s no good. Not good for anything. I held your hand and said, He is good. Your mother said dinner was ready. She hoped it was a good brisket. She wasn’t sure. A western resounded in the background. Your father repeated That boy’s no good no good. A joke not-joke. The house smelled of meat. You washed your hands. I wondered how you took it and what we would speak of later regarding your father. Then the phone was ringing. Aunt Justine shouted through the answering machine, over TV gunfire, I just want to make sure y’all’s doing OK. I like the new ladyfriend. I like how she came in smilin’ and huggin’ and smilin’! I like our boy’s new ladyfriend! When she’d finished and the machine had clicked off, we held hands, bowed our heads, and your father prayed loud but not long. And you said, Amen, and that you quite liked the new ladyfriend, too, and no one laughed but me.
After He Left
I returned home from work and stood alone in the darkest room in the house in my blouse and skirt, barefoot. I felt the presence of a man in the hallway. But I knew no one was there. I missed his light, his long talking. I missed praying with him (though he did not pray). I missed his teeth, his lope, the him of him. I missed the shadow he left in his leaving. In the dark kitchen I saw his cup, left behind on the counter. I placed my finger into his tea, still warm to the touch. I drank. I drank it all.
