Middle of the Road

He put the car in park
in the middle of the street,
slammed the door,
and walked away.

My mother’s anger
spilled like gasoline.
My crying was the match.

I don’t remember
where he went.
A lover’s house.
The bar.
Anywhere but us.

I only remember
the hollow in my chest—
the sudden weight of knowing
love is something
that can leave
in the middle of a sentence.

Years later
I found myself
walking away from love
with the same footsteps,
practiced, heavy.

Now I carry my daughter.
She clings like gravity.
Her weight presses into me,
and I understand:
I will not repeat him.
I will not be the absence
she remembers.

He taught me
without meaning to.
I learned
by watching his back
disappear.