Renée Owen
Sebastopol, California, USA

In TV Land

In that model house, the one I yearn for nightly, Mother, dressed in a swirl of cheerful pinks. Her hair delicately done, she hums under her breath in the kitchen. The smell of supper roasting. Sunlight shines on waxed floors. The tinkle laughter of children playing tiddlywinks, then a dinner bell. Night after night, someone else’s mother dances across the screen, welcomes father home with a kiss, with a wink and a nod.

over hamburger helper
and highballs
a dangerous silence