My Side

When I was little,
he always threatened
to leave us. He held
those words over our heads,
using their gravity to keep us down.

I used to stand on tiptoe,
staring out the bathroom window
as he sullenly threw everything
into the back of his old pickup truck,
which was a faded red color
with orange flames painted on the sides.
A truck like that
is always ready to go.

When the begging
for him to stay finally stopped,
he stopped pretending to go.
He pulled the anger from his face
and packed it away with the same carelessness
he had used to pack his bags.
He sold his red truck and bought a white one.
Sitting half-drunk in front of the TV,
he hypnotized himself with empty promises
of vacations and puppies.
But my little dandelion heart
had already blown out of his hands.
Four years later, we left him.

I hear he drives a black truck now
and blames everything on us.