When He Arrives

I know him by his smell first.

The cologne that's trying too hard,

mixed with cigarettes from outside the airport,

the walk from the car.

It gets into the kitchen before he does.

He'll ask me about school, about work,

questions he doesn't want answers to.

He'll stand closer than necessary.

He'll call me something diminishing.

He'll laugh too loud at his own story.

I've already braced for it.

My shoulders are already tight.

My smile is already prepared.

The way my mother changes when he walks in—

smaller, louder, sharper all at once.

The way my father leaves the room.

The way my brother suddenly has somewhere to be.

And me. I stay.

I always stay.

I'm already sitting at the table, already passing the potatoes,

already laughing at the right moments,

already making myself smaller,

already pretending I don't remember

what he said last year,

or the year before,

or ten years ago when I was small enough

that he could just

pick me up

without asking.

He hasn't arrived yet.

But he's already here.