Perception.

Sitting with my father on our back patio-

the neglected one usurped by rusty gears,

and beer cans, of course,

because he is an "alcoholic"
so says my mother-

he tells me of his degenerate knees,
because it was different at thirty,
and because their immobility
greatly reflects his despondency.

And somehow, unsurprisingly,
he straggles his way back to my mother,
because, he says,
they had such a good thing going,
and she threw it all away.

And because he knew
to pack her two pair of jeans-
one too small and one that would fit-
the day I was born.
He asks me why she would want
her hair that orange,
but doesn't really wait for an answer.

No, he says, he could never
love her again,
his voice comprised oddly
of adoration and mockery.

Laughing about the time
she made him fold a thousand barbed-wire hearts
for her to paint and sell and be crafty with.
Or the cattle they hauled
together,
driving, can't stop for a fight.
"She had to pee every hour almost, you know."

He goes on like this,
one recount collapsing into another.
And, of course, he always knew
she was too young for him,
but he really thought
that when they hit the ten-year mark...

Well, she better be happy now,
because he'll never love her again,
so says my father.