Thursdays

My mother enters the bar

hair slightly disheveled

from threads of wind

and hours

gazing into strangers’ eyes

and offering them

sight.

 

He waves her down

that father of mine

his stuffed peppers

shining like curled

rubies

her pappardelle

a bowl of

swirling galaxies

like the ones she traced

with her fingertips

the last time

they lay on their backs

in Colorado

and he felt

like they were children again

a time when he threw

dirt bombs at the girls next door

and she struggled

to keep up with her brothers

knees scraped and

dripping red beads

like the ones

lacing together

her friendship bracelet.

 

On Thursdays

they dive back in time

to the same bar

where my father’s menu

caught on fire

and he recounts this story

while my mother laughs

owl-like

and starts the conversation

all over again.

 

By Danielle Fusaro

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