The evening played out in timestamps. Front lawn embedded with individual flat rocks, leading up to closed eyes, her fingers tensing, slick with grease, firm grip worried that if she didn’t dig in with her thumbnail, the present might pass. She thought about the kitchen, husband rolling his eyes and telling her that thyme was a poor substitute for rosemary. His mouth went seesaw, smirking beneath his beard, told her, Just saying, baby. A gentle pat on her ass to assure her it was all good, though. She thought about the first time they met, bar party she had no interest in, and he had smiled. His fedora had been slanted to the side, and told her he was a poet, and that she needed to come to his reading, some bookstore diner down on the LES. She thought about the number of times he would playfully pull her away from social gatherings to drive home, strip and smile through the sex. She thought about year one, fording number two, marriage kicked off by a wedding where his friends made jokes, told stories, laughter overlapping the words before they happened until there was just no telling. She thought this apartment might not have been her first choice, but he had his job and she had hers, and while she searched for her next place of employment, wouldn’t this be the best? She thought about her thoughts, the stories she could tell if given the chance to get even one-fourth in before his own tales of poetry – the upcoming article, a tirade against poor service at the bar down the road – would come in to run interference. She thought about how much she hated Thanksgiving, and why was there bacon on everything, and his insistence that theirs was a place where people could come together for appreciation of mother, father, brother, sisters who asked him what made the mashed potatoes so good, followed by the sly, bearded grin that the secret was thyme.

The evening played out in timestamps, leading up to the wishbone. Eyes closed, surprisingly dry SNAP as it broke in two, hefty half in her hand, and almost immediately it began.

Funny to think it was what he referred to as his poetry palm, fretting hand, where the wish originated. Fingers curling into a fist before he could even bother to look surprised. Curling further, unkempt nails that forgot their bite, even from that first night in bed, leaving traces inside her, same digits pressing into poetry palm, first blood come the first second, as his own index, ring, middle cleaved through his hand, and his own tiny piece of the wishbone SNAPPED under the pressure. The last syllable to originate from self assured was a misguided Huh from his mother’s diaphragm, before the sound of the wish took over. His left arm went backwards against the side of handcrafted pinewood, chair worth its weight, holding his shoulder in place as the rest went curling – SNAP – enough force to send bone erupting from the socket, nerves, veins and all, blood barely getting a head start on coloring that dress vest before the first scream cut through the room. It was his sister. Covering her mouth as another arm went backwards, same result. Same damp SNAP, and then her husband finally realized, face giving into a preamble of confusion, all-knowing grin still stuck to his lips somehow even when faced with true uncertainty. Everyone joined with their own reactions. Father taking to his feet so fast that the clatter of his son’s jaw unhinging, detaching, unceremoniously tumbling into yesterday’s leftovers was masked, aided by the brother who simply began to beat his fists against the table, mother just stuck wiping her mouth, eyes glassed over, and over, as husband-boy’s arms contorted further back, splinter of wrists splitting, wrapping around, creating a chicken-wire knot out of his arms, holding him fast as he began to cry. His scream pure poetry.

She glanced down. Her hand. Greasy thumb sliding along the wishbone, cradled like a rabbit’s paw, and stayed silent.

It felt good to have nothing to say, and her silence remained uninterrupted for the next five minutes.

###

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so long and thanks for all the pish.