At the rooftop restaurant
overlooking London on the
honeymoon come 20 years too late,
my mother longed for the window seat.
It was the last of my father’s offerings:
the new house on the one-acre lot,
the blue car with a big red bow,
the Ethan Allen living room suite.
He could do no more to please her there,
at the all-expenses-paid last resort,
than in the beginning when her expectations
cast long shadows down the aisle.
A love can only take so much,
hide the wince of disappointment so long,
before it gathers lines that won’t erase,
turns to scan a distant skyline.