In a poem, “Moon Halo,”
I said I deleted the photos of us.
The messages too—
the ones I kept like insurance
where he spoke poorly of his friends.
I bagged up his clothes,
dropped them at Goodwill.
Threw out the small reminders of our story—
a plastic shark from a bar crawl,
a heart-shaped rock from Avila.
I ripped up the last birthday card,
the one where he finally called me beautiful.
I posted the poem—
Vocal. Facebook.
Places he doesn’t follow me,
everywhere,
since he blocked me, deleted me.
The next day—
a white envelope in my mailbox.
Inside:
my cheetah print panties.
The only proof he still had that I existed.
He drove 21.4 miles one way
to return them.
Deliberate.
Like he returned the favor.
About the Creator
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More stories from Tina D. Lopez and writers in Poets and other communities.
December 8, 1980
When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.
By Tina D. LopezExclusive • 2 months ago
Comments (1)
Ouch. Tho at least you got panties back and can continue moving on, I guess.