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.
Begin Again 