The third of July

and already they gather:  the aunts and uncles

from Alabama or Nebraska, children in tow, complaining

already about the long trip; Patrice

wandering around, apart from the group, born

“special,” although her mother would say:

She is mentally retarded, the statement bolded

in the still room; not one

to couch her words, to pretend that things were anything other

than what they were.

Her table is set –always–with the white bone

china perfectly placed; silver

knives and forks, spoons carefully

positioned, napkins folded on the plates,

like origami on the plates.

 

Their father expectant at the head of the table, his drink clink clink

in the clear glass; every night a test;

what new vocabulary would he introduce

over the perfectly

carved roast; the day’s fare portioned out, precisely.

Years later, he slouched

in the corner, getting up to shuffle to the porch,

to “Oooh” and “Aaah” with the rest of them, a small grandchild in

his lap, while his grown children looked on with wonder, Who is

this man?  Every word controlled, holding its breath, waiting

to explode

in a burst of color, lighting up

the inky sky.