Who was my mother before she met my father and learned to scream?
Did she wear her hair long and loose, the thick sheets of burnt oak wheat curled habitually between her young piano fingers? Did she stop singing Sam Cooke when people came in the room? Did cigarets find their home between her smiles, were curses running like bitter saliva through her teeth?
Most importantly: Did she come home one day --to Pa folded in his armchair, hands tucked tight against his sides, whiskey to his right, Ma fixing dinner with an eye on her dead sons's picture, Franny working the late shift down at the tracks,-- and know that every night would be shorter than the next until she was the ghost walking the bright foreign halls of married life.