My arms curl round his neck.
It used to be a thing.

The kisses on the cheek.
The side glances with little buds of a smile.

That was a wedding day.
Wedding day things never last.
I suppose.

One day I was laying on the couch sobbing.
No clue why.
His fist actually hit my face.
No clue why.
That also used to be a thing.

That didn’t make it into the capsule
A photo album of memories
Of an ex husband and a father
My twins never met.

Because I wanted us to live.

But there are photos of mom and dad
Hugging
Outside the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City.

Pictures having casual dinners
With Russian friends
And my cat Lucy
Who he left to die but my beat friend saved

All when I ran away.

Who wants to see that?
Who wants to know that?

Better to see a smiling couple outside a Harlem church. Christmas day no less.

Photo albums are time capsules.
Time capsules are fairy tales.
We curate them.

Why not make them happy?

This one sits buried in a plastic tub
Under my old psychology textbooks
Waiting for my twins to say,
“Tell us about our dad.”