Author's Note: Mother, Father please forgive me. I think I’m becoming a writer. Everyone and everything I’ve ever known ends up in my verse.
First born, designated harvester of departed father’s estate. Discover all. Take inventory. Distribute all. Preserve memory. Auction a life. Surprise! Sorting of private belongings exposed his pornography collection. Pressed by mattress, earmarked pages illustrating carnal debauchery. Film reels projecting hairy, sweaty people with dirty feet copulating in cars, kitchens, schools, black tape dancing over eyes to disguise identity. “Oh, Papa!” As children, we never knew about parental sex, the very spark that ignited existence. Nocturnal murmurs, whispers, rustling fabric the only clues. When mother passed, my sister found her private things. Big things, knobby things with attachments, battery compartments. One of them had a name. “Oh, Mama!”
©2022 Lynn Norton
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