The Albatross

When I know you are coming home I put on this necklace: glass beads on a silken thread, a blue that used to match my eyes. I like to think I am remembering you. I like to think you don’t forget. The necklace lies heavy on my skin, it clatters when I reach down to lift my screaming child. I swing her, roll her in my arms until she forgets. The beads glitter in the flicker of a TV set as I sit her on my lap and wish away the afternoon. I wait until I hear a gate latch lift the turn of key in lock. I sit amongst toys and unwashed clothes, I sit and she fingers the beads until you speak in a voice that no longer seems familiar, only strange. I turn as our child tugs at the string. I hear a snap and a sound like falling rain.