Vows of White and Gold

the ring should seal it with a promise of things to come

but I knew better than to believe in such falsehoods.

my parents never wore their rings, not one single day,

yet I never once found this odd until I was older.

"divorce" wasn't a word thrown around easily, but

I saw the truth of it in the way their eyes simmered.

my parents' brand of love was ever a battlefield,

and I never knew anything different from their scenes.

every single moment seemed snatched from a play

where the fury seemed to ignite for an invisible audience.

but no one watched, no one cared, no one said a word

except me, me, me—always the observer to the strain.

when I found my dad's wedding ring tucked away,

the gold shimmered as my fingers twisted at better angles.

it was like magic, that ring, because I knew what it meant:

once, my parents had loved each other enough to exchange rings.

but even after my mother died, I never found her matching ring,

almost as if the thing had never existed at all in the first place.

the only gleam of gold I have of her is the way the light hits

my brown eyes, usually as pleasant and exciting as dirt.

the love story of my parents is much like a blank canvas,

even with the stories and the pictures and my existence.

maybe I once tried to learn—how did I come to be?—

but now I just think of white paint covering an entire history.

there is the canvas of their love, anonymous to me forever,

and the fleeting touch of gold in my hands so long ago.

I wrap up the white and the gold and try to construct it

into some fashion that might enlighten me someday.

and every time I look in the mirror, there are the whites of my eyes

overlaid with their brown irises that hold the promise of gold.