Mrs. Andrews opens her planetary mouth
as the other Mothers lean in to her gravitational pull
—mine included.
I do not understand why they all nod when no question was asked,
Nor their laughter despite no joke being told.
I lean on my toes to ask Mom why she’s laughing.
Wiping away a mascara trail from her cheek, she whispers:
it’s an adult thing, honey
But I am ten and I want to be twenty,
so I dance around her skirt and pull at her elbows
Until she relents to the final word:
it’s an adult thing, honey. coping
I still do not understand the Mothers twisting at their wedding rings
like how I play with my church dress hems on hot days—
while they kneed the bags beneath their eyes with
white-knuckled polished hands, reaching
into their purses filled with plastic cards
to pay for children’s soccer games and ballet recitals and ice cream.
I drag a chair up next to Mother’s,
sitting like an adult does with tired slouches.
I nod along to Mrs. Andrew’s story about her son’s graduation,
mimicking the others until I too am laughing in all the right places
at things that aren’t funny over the sound of the Dads
monopolizing the television.
I don’t see Mother sigh into my pigtails
Wishing I wouldn’t learn to be so good at pretending
not yet.