abandoned and a dying garden by Lauren Singeras though they began dinner
and suddenly realized that everything
they'd thought they wanted was defunct.
like the husband was chewing his broccoli,
getting all the bits of green between his teeth,
and then, without any indication,
he throws his fork across the room--
it hits a picture frame that shatters.
"i can't live like this anymore!" he screams.
the children shield their eyes from the broken glass,
and the wife stands, lifts up her skirts and glares at the man.
"well we can't just leave everything, darling!"
"why not? what do we have here?!"
and the children start crying, but it's as though
the parents can't hear them at all,
like a mute has silenced the children into protective walls
and the parents can only see each other.
they begin throwing objects in bags,
frantically shoveling clothes away,
jewelry and souvenirs. photographs.
they only fill the largest souvenirs
and keep their clothes in the bureaus.
by the time they remember the children,
they're already halfway down the road,
their feet already swollen with the need to run.
they go back to collect them,
they haven't even time to pack.
they leave all the dishes in the sink,
the butter melting on the table.
on the third day, the lettuce begins melting compost
down the side of the counter.
it takes twenty years for anyone to realize that they're gone.
what did they discover when they left?
did everything just follow them?
i run my fingers over the dresser tops and across the walls,
leaving lines of dust over the bedroom.
the blankets look as though they're weighed down to the bed with decay.
there is a glass of water on the bedside table,
stagnant, drowning flies and their encasings.
a doll sits on a chair,
her legs straight out beneath her,
her had tilted to the side;
as though she, too
has no memory of her family. 04/23/2008 Posted on 04/24/2008 Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer
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