Reunion

We fork and spoon through memory.

Burgers on the grill, drinks without alcohol.

Perhaps reputation proceeded me, and

knowing my nature, when

not necessarily sober,

might prove a hard swallow for 
auntie ol’ dear,

so no booze. 
No big deal.   
None of us really 
know each other: aunt,

cousin, cousin’s sister. 
Just you and I share a history.

Uneasy. You asked my mother for my number, but she said

she’d lost it. You replied, is everything a secret?

In this family,

the tapestry is weaved with lies,

the scenery, bleak.

In regards to exposing the rest,

you shoot straight, but

curated your chronicle with 
amnesiac recollection.
Some pieces missing 
like the mystery of Roanoke.   
I’m glad

she didn’t give you the number.

I have trouble calling you liar.  Your eyes

open to fiction. Your judgments

disregard your own crimes, robbed

mom of memories: knick-knacks, photographs,

jewelry to create a happy (I believe)

paint-by-numbers picture of what wasn’t.

It’s a pity you couldn’t just say why, but
self deception runs deeper than waters
Ballenas ply in secrecy. I’ve learned to 
stop asking questions. The answer

can be as fatal as the last round 
of Russian roulette.