My father was on a business trip
in New York City when the news of
September 11th spilt across the country
like knocked wine. My mother took a
shovel to her chest and buried her heart
in her sleeve. There were thirty-two
messages on our answering machine.
When I got off the school bus, it was as if
her hug did not fit. Her shoulders: snapped
hinges. We sat in front of the television
screen, TV dinners gone cold in our laps.
My mother paced on the phone in the
kitchen. “No, we haven’t gotten a hold
of him yet.” I watched her put the milk
in the cupboard and silverware in the
freezer. It was the day we changed our
passwords, the garage code, every lock
to his birthday. I sprayed his cologne
on my wrists and hid his undershirts
under my bed. When he finally
came home safe, I was surprised
he was not wearing a suit jacket
of ashes. I do not ask him about
what he saw. This story is a burst
blood vessel. This story is never
told at family picnics. It has no
punch line. When my father does
speak, this story is the only one
my mother hushes for.
She lets him tell it.
She lets him
pull the teeth.