The voice was
sweet but moved
sideways
like it was slipping on ice.
It would slur
then trill like a bird
like a baby doll.
It scared me
and dad always knew
and I'd see the storm cross his brow.
My mom
would reach for the phone
and my dad
would dip his shoulder and turn the phone from her.
The crying of my mom
faded like a pop song from behind the door.
When they reemerged,
all things return to normal
and she's my mom again
and I enter that room and smell her cigarette smoke
and reach for the three photos of her
when she was five, ten, and sixteen,
and wonder what a boy does
when he has a beautiful mom
who needs to be rescued from time to time.
And why I fall in love with the person in each picture
as if they
never
were the girl
who grew up to be my mom.