Defenses
.
A figure in orange inspects the perimeter of my fence.
The only man that patrols my house is my father
and he doesn’t need a uniform.
PTSD wears you.
Alerts inundate our phones.
A missing woman with dementia was
last seen at 2:30am.
She’s wearing pink pajamas.
I look to the man in orange,
his eyes transfixed on the ravine
on the far side of my high-tensile wire.
We drive through town,
scanning rows of cars on the shoulder,
search parties scouring the woods.
Should we join them?
We have kids.
We had kids when her husband last saw her.
We had kids while the helicopters flew overhead.
We had kids while the volunteers combed the woods.
We had kids when we ate shepherd’s pie.
We had kids when we tucked them in.
We had kids when I checked for an update.
We had kids when her body was found.
We had kids when her husband was told.
We had kids and she had kids and her kids probably had kids.
And maybe the man in orange had kids.
And maybe she was so gone at that point she was a kid again.
And maybe when my father patrols he thinks he’s protecting kids
but really he’s playing
soldier
on loop
for six decades.
My mom says he screams for his mom in his sleep.
He’s almost eighty.
Was she out looking for her mother?
My son thrashes in the bed next to me.
I turn over to protect my vital organs from his frenzied limbs.
He places his hand on my face,
pulls my chin towards him,
and grins,
“I found you.”
