What Really Dies in Autumn

In a bar somewhere during
an ordinary October, a former
husband sits with his former wife,
and they talk about the son they
share. The husband tells her how
proud he is of the boy, how great
football is: the loyalty to teammates,
willingness to work through pain,
leadership by men of boys who
want to become men, and she
goes quiet, sensing her X has slid
into the memory of his own high
school games. He is so specific,
recalling yardage and the names
of players. He is embarrassed
with the emotion of it and shrugs
like he used to while they were married.
She sips her vodka, content to listen
for once and not judge. He sips his
bourbon and talks about their boy
again. When they leave, she feels
feathery, the small, tight ball
in her chest that used to keep her
from taking a deep breath, suddenly
gone. She doesn’t immediately
understand this as a sign of forgiveness,
but when she leaves the father
of her son in the parking lot, she
thinks of him as a boy and wonders,
for one strange moment, what it
would have been like had she
been his mother instead of his wife.

Laura McCullough