The Receptionist Options

[anaisa]

To Rena, with her unseen tentacles
that slithered up too closely to my Dad.
You were an ugly version of my Mother,
a shadowy receptionist who had

proclaimed herself, not looking for a man.
I worked beside you every summer— my
girlish instincts screamed a shrill alert.
Your Christmas gift to us was mounted high

above the mantle. Mom pretended that
she liked the water scene—but then forgot
to pack it when the house was sold. She knew
Dad's drawers were full of clothes she hadn't bought,

but washed away the hurtful thought. For years
she lulled unanswered questions into slumber,
allaying past suspicions—unlike me
who checked through every call and had your number.