I remember that day so clearly,
one of her legendary parties,
the kind where the air seemed to hum
with her joy
before anyone even arrived.
All day I helped her clean,
setting the scene as if each glass,
each plate, each candle
might carry its own small universe.
I watched her at the mirror,
painting her face with practiced care,
and wondered if I would ever
look as beautiful
as she did just then.
When the guests came,
the house swelled with music,
with drink and dancing,
and a haze of cigarette smoke
that turned the light to gold.
I took my place-
Bleary-eyed beneath the dining table.
I didn’t want to answer their questions.
I wanted to watch her.
To see who might hold her heart,
that fragile thing
she gave away too freely.
To count the cracks before they widened,
to brace for the fall
I knew would come.
Most of all,
I wanted to watch her shine.
to store that light for darker nights,
for when her tears would spill
like ink from this pen,
so I could remind her:
she would be happy again.
Because her survival
was our survival.
And now,
when one of those songs
drifts through the air,
I am there again—
A child beneath the table,
watching her sparkle,
wishing I could be the one
to make her glow.
