Like a book I know, 1977

The last time the family moved

the movers packed us and loaded

 

everything on the truck.

We didn’t have to do a thing

 

as they emptied our Lambertville home

with just beds left to sleep on and a TV.

 

Mom was in a state.  I barricaded myself in

the study, downstairs, watching a show.  My sister

 

at a friend’s house that night.

Dad, gone already to his new job.

 

I had no notebook so I wrote on scraps, afraid to lose a word.

As she railed against Dad and me, I took notes.

 

With nothing left in that house, she’d found something, some evidence

though when quiet in her room for a while

 

I stepped out of the study into the kitchen

sure to set her off but I had to

 

take the chance. 

Heading back up the stairs I sensed her.

 

From the upstairs landing she aimed a small, silver revolver down at me.

 

And held me there,

as I backed toward the front door behind me.

 

A cold steadiness

overtook me.

 

I’m going out, I’m going across the street to see your

friend, I’ll tell him.

 

I’ll call the

cops from there and he’ll help me do it.

 

If you don’t put that away

he’ll know

 

the truth about you.  And she couldn’t have that,

none of it.  I bet everything on it.