When I was little, I remember hearing Mama and Papa tell the story about how they fell in love.

When I was little, I remember wanting to fall in love one day just like Mama and Papa did…

I watched as they held each other, warm arms and warm smiles, general warmth.

They told me about how one day I would find a blossomed baby blue passion just like they did.

Adoration announced, a tuxedo black showed to all.

Honeymoon-beach sand tan betwixt them.

Everyday, when Papa would come home from work,

                 Mama and I would rush to greet him, while he stood inside the house.

He’d wiped his shoes; once, twice, then he would leave them on the mat just inside the house.

         Papa always hated when Mama had to clean the dirt that his shoes left on our floor.

He’d hang up his top hat on the coat hook, the black cloth of it still warm from soaking the sun.

Time went on…

I wasn’t so little anymore…

They let me see the way a love can freeze to a grief blue.

Hostility hidden, a bruise of black and blue showed to none.

Betrayal brown between the two of them.

Everyday, when Papa would come home from work,

                 Mama and I would see him outside through the window on the side of the front door. He’d wiped his shoes on the mat just outside the front door.

         Papa didn’t notice when our last name became obscure, caked in dirt.

He’d hang up his umbrella, the rain sliding off of the silk top onto the floor.

I watched as she pointed a crisp, sharp manicured finger at him, and his mouth opened wide with each bitter profanity he spat, lips cracked as thin ice.

Now that I’m older, I understand that Mama and Papa's Love didn’t wait “til’ death” to part.

Now that I’m older, I feel that “‘til death do us part” is a joke, like Mama and Papa's Love was…