You'd suffered stroke after stroke during the night
that blackest of nights, the sky empty of stars

the moon just a sliver of light
sadly on the wane

So I gave the word and let you go
and by the time the family albums finally passed to me

the photos and clippings with news of my drowned half-brother
were gone, maybe lost in the fire that gutted my sister's home

though I sit now with boxes of photos and memories
stacking and sorting them as best I can to separate

black and white
from color

truth from
half-truth

and with you and dad gone
and two brothers and a sister already in graves

I wonder how much of this history
is more myth than map?

how much is public record?
how much would you prefer I keep private?

I forgive you, mother, for your secrets
and hope you will forgive me

if I cannot promise
not to tell

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