Her princely marriage blighted mom. It wasn’t
what she thought, just different walls. She found
herself drawn to windows, parapets, the round
moon-face pulling her, asking why she hadn’t
left yet. So when we awoke to find her gone,
we weren’t surprised—although to father’s questions
we played dumb. We let him search, pursue notions
of re-wooing. We kids found traces on the lawn,
bare footprints in the dew, swatches of mistletoe
twining, bags of simples, bird skeletons hung
from lintels. Mother was about, still among
us—just changed. No scullion, no Highness, no
one but her deepest self, luminescent and wise.
We learned new ways to see her, not just our eyes.