Back in the summer of ‘99 when
My mom and adoptive father got married
I remember the cream white carpet of the pastors house and the table with a gaudy white cake, my mother’s hair in black ringlets around her face and the white t-strap dress shoes, scalloped around the edges.
I remember the staunch silence of my
soon-to-be-brothers probably wondering why he didn’t stick with their respective moms but being altogether curious anyway, of them looking on with their sad blue eyes.

Years later when they’d tell the story of how they met, I’d romanticize this divine encounter only to
realize in my early 20’s that it was more of a business arrangement, really. And in 2018 when my late boyfriend Thomas asked during a boots and bling gala why your parents don’t touch or dance with one another I defensively respond that they don’t have to do that to love one other but

That was all wrong, really.