Wistful

Twilight had descended.

My stepson yanked open the front door.

Earlier he and his brother had stood by their dad’s side,

shifting,

scuffing their shiny shoes.

The photographer positioned them in natural-looking poses.

They extracted small plates of red velvet cake sliced by a captain’s sword, the icing tattling on them.

She stood on the darkened threshold,

her knock still resonating.

Breathlessly, an 8-year-old voice: Mom, meet the newest member of our family.

My heart soared; a dove taking flight.

But the warmth swooped out the door.

The bright white light, diminished, winging away, becoming a pinprick on an inked canvas. 

Her smile froze.

Her 14-year-old daughter became a statue.

Her 10-year-old son laughed nervously.

Her youngest son didn’t notice.

Across the room, my eyes met his.

They used to be hers too.

Reassurance nodded back.

Composure regained.

In a blink, the movie reel of our lives fast-forwarded,

Casting glimpses of coming attractions.

Instead of viewing the unedited true-life story,

I chose the Hallmark Channel version.

I believed that I could be a part of this family.

Through unfiltered dialogue,

some friends shared the painful truth about what life would probably be like.

But wait till they know me, they’ll see, I insisted.

A crusty old soothsayer cackled: His children will never accept you.

With trembling hands, I light a vanilla votive.

The aroma of optimism confronts the dark edges.

The flame flickers, shadow-puppeting the wall

with images that only I can recognize,

only I can conjure,

only I can believe.