A/N: It's a beautiful day outside. Hallelujah.
Mama didn't talk about Daddy much, ever since he packed up and left. My life was broken down the middle; naturally, my loyalties laid with Mama, but Daddy was like a guardian, a silent presence that moved around the house in long, powerful strides, who mumbled and tousled my hair and smoked cigarettes by the pack. I wanted them both, because they were two halves of a whole and I didn't want half a life.
They were never happy, it seemed. Only tolerably content. In the beginning, I remembered more smiles and laughter, but as time went on Mama became stern and tight-lipped and Daddy would only speak in syllabic quantities, lumbering around like molasses in January, caked with a sort of indescribable sadness I could never quite put my finger on. I didn't know why he should feel this way. It confused and upset me.
Jack Twist was a puzzle in my memory. I don't remember meeting him but I can recall a soft voice and blue eyes and more sadness; sadness I had felt in Daddy and now felt in this stranger; sadness that enveloped them and me, just by being there; sadness I did not understand nor want to understand at the time.
It pains me still to think of him in that rickety old trailer, counting down the moments of his life like a man on death row. I pains me to think that somewhere along the way, he lost everything.
Before the wedding, I slip into my dress, put up my hair, and add a touch of make-up to my cheeks. Mama stands to my side, handkerchief in hand, and I think of Daddy and his beloved postcards; I think of Daddy and his annual fishing trips; I think of Daddy in his rented tux, walking me down the aisle, and I have to know. I have to know.
"Mama," I say, and she looks up at me. "What ever happened to you and Daddy? Why did everything turn out this way?"
Mama purses her lips and draws her brows together. The words linger on her lips for an eternity.
"Jack Twist," she answers. "Jack Twist meant more to him than I ever did."
I think of Daddy in his rickety old trailer. I think of Daddy and those fishing trips I always wanted to accompany him on, but he refused every time; the fish Mama wanted him to bring home, but he never did. I think of Daddy and his sadness; of Jack Twist and his blue eyes. I think of these things as Mama sips tea in her long, flowery dress. And I don't know how to feel.