Mother

All these years, no one said a word. The grandmothers he passed on his way to the bake sale each Saturday morning never said a word. Those children playing pickle ball, who when they saw him waved like they would too ones own brother, never said a word. HIs father, the honest-to-god church going man who took the knee each night before bed, the man who looked you in the eye from dawn to dusk, never said a god-damn fucking word. My mother was dead for fuck’ sake, everyone knew, and no one said a fucking word. They watched, they watched as I spoke to her whilst I dragged the over-filled bin out each Wednesday night. They head our heated discussions over Melanie, about the thin-blue line, and during that liminal period that exists halfway through a set of big-bang reruns. Why did nobody tell me. Why did you all just let it fucking happen. What the fuck is wrong with you people?