The Trembling Hand

Dinner. My mother said something

I can't unknow. We were talking

about something small, something that

didn't matter. I said something

about my father. She said:

I used to think that about him too.

Her fork was mid-air when she said it.

Her hand was trembling. Or maybe

I'm remembering the trembling

because the sentence needed it.

Because a sentence like that

requires hands to shake.

The kitchen light was too bright.

It made everything visible—

the food on her plate, the way

she wasn't eating it. The way

she was looking at something

I couldn't see. The way

her life had been divided into

before and after. Before she believed

something about him. After.

I said something to fill the space.

I don't remember what. She set

the fork down. It made a sound

against the plate. Small.

Like the sound a marriage makes

when it stops being a story

and starts being a fact.

Now I can't look at them the same.

Now I know that she knows.

Now I know that the knowing

has been there all along, like

a third person at the table,

waiting for someone to speak

its name.