It’s the last straw, I heard her say.
She packed our bags to fly to California.
In the days before non-stop flights, planes hopped
across the country. Starts and stops and waiting.
Was she wearing her blue jersey wedding dress?
I can’t recall, but picture us standing in an airport,
confused travelers, runaway women holding hands.
I was six.
In a coffee shop, hungry, I dug into a salad with grapes.
They were black olives, something I’d never eaten. I
wonder if my surprise registered.
Would she remember that incident?
We flew on to her sister’s. I thought we
were on vacation, so little did I know
of marital discontent. Swimming in the Pacific,
riding a burro in Tijuana, I was oblivious to it.
Until now, when
expecting the crush of sweet grapeskins,
I discover my mouth full of olives
and struggle, lifelong, the impulse to escape.
What could she tell me about the taste of love,
the color of compassion,
the fabric of commitment?
She didn’t have to divorce him, death interceded.
Anyway, I’m not her and you are not
my father. So I stay. To finish their story?
Or to write my own in her honor?