Mama Bear

Tripping down the subterranean hallway,
Plaid skirt swishing about my knees
I climb the six steps to the kitchen light,
Mary Janes sinking into shaggy brown nap.
I should have noticed the missing person-noises, the absence of fresh cigarette smoke,
But I don’t.

With a day of stories ready to burst out of my mouth, I skip into the kitchen.
I see nothing but the cream envelope lying on the table.
Without reason to, I already know.
I wheeze. Small hands shake more than usual
My heartbeat leaves my chest and takes up a tom-tom beat in my ears.

I grasp it, open it.
Beautiful, thick linen paper, cream. Precisely, perfectly looping, slanting lines, black.
“I’m leaving. It’s not you. I love you. I can’t take your sister or brother anymore.”
Three sheets weigh so much in my hands,
Sharing details that weigh far too much more.
Three sheets.

“It’s not you”
But it could be.
I might fail.
Might be me who breaks a rule
Or your heart.

Next time it might be my difficulties
That drive you to your sister’s house
And start the weeks of aching silence,
Then the awkward visitations,
Meeting for lunch like work friends,
Not like mother and daughter.

If it were him, I would understand.
I hate him sometimes, too.
His rages, his poor speech, his bulging gut.
I would understand.

But I will never, ever understand a mama bear
Leaving her cubs

“It’s not you.”
But it could be me.
Next time.