I once imagined my ex-husband’s mom,
when she was young and hadn’t been long wed.
The process fused to detonate a bomb
of understanding. Afterwards, instead
of harboring disdain and nursing grief,
I wrote a story as I gave some thought
to motivation. Fiction bore belief;
by plotting probability, I’m taught.

A little earlier but just as good,
I made a mom-tale justifying mine.
Imagining a heedless childhood,
I plumbed the shoulds that cluttered every line.
Perhaps the time’s now come when I’ll pretend,
and comprehend the trends of my old friend.