You Once Had A Heart

You know the tabby cat

who lives in our backyard,

painted with splotches of orange and white.

He’s both child and friend to me.

I’ve held him over my shoulder,

cheek to cheek, him and me.

Feed him once a day—feed him less, you say.

You only care about seeing the dead baby rabbits

that won’t get into our garden now.

My father raised a hard-working,

respectful woman,

submissive to you—your servant.

He succumbed to the sickness

of addiction—

no longer the same reflection in the mirror,

no longer strong enough

to take care of himself or improve his life.

He will sell everything for his next crack rock.

You won’t help him keep his home

unless you know there will be a return for you.

Not even a decade old,

you told the children about the birds and the bees—

that Santa and the Easter Bunny aren’t real—

and about my father as well,

as they munched on tortilla chips

at our favorite restaurant.

Their last piece of childhood stolen from them,

and I don’t know why.

You would not let me stop you.

My mother’s foundation,

the one she’s known for forty years,

crumbles beneath her feet.

Her balance wavers;

even the air pushes her down

as you insist she decides where she’s going next.

Her handyman and companion—gone.

We imagined her as our neighbor,

planting secure roots two hours north.

She decided it was better to stay

with the familiar shaking of the ground

she stands upon—for now.

You stood in for my father, then left.

You will not paint over the spackle

you’ve left on her walls.

You will not drywall the holes you made

and never fixed after helping with her plumbing.

She sends your toolbox home with me.

I wait on you,

having learned not to tell you the time on my clock.

If I object to your perception of time

or your plans for how to use it,

you explode like a bomb.

Your children cower in the rubble.

You see it, but will not change.

You once had a heart.

Where did it go?