one singular truffle
maybe the ending was chosen, maybe it was a slow decline of language and growth and death.
I always had to account, had always done something wrong. you always held me to account.
at fault. at fault.
but any confrontation I brought was disaster, hell upon you, a personal attack made of chainsaws and tremors in my fingers. maybe because you held on to me so tightly, so possessively, you couldn't let me go even long enough to breathe (or live or cry or walk or be mortal). you wanted me to belong to you. maybe, the ending started with your words, "one singular truffle," after you asked four thousand times for one, and I made twelve for my family for Christmas with hard work, and hours over the stove. I brought one for you. one was not enough, was not what you wanted. -- or maybe the moment of mortality was when you told me that receiving your wrath was an act of trust, confidence in my faithfulness. and yet, I could never do what you wanted, even when I did what you asked. the request was too laborious, too diminishing of you. at fault. at fault. you couldn't stop saying it: "one singular truffle." and the words never left my mind, even when I make coffee on Tuesday nights.