The First One Wasn't Like This

The program was on cardstock. Glossy.

A photo of him I'd never seen.

Speakers in the ceiling.

A man in a fitted suit who showed you to your row.

Someone had thought through every part of this.

I held it in my lap and thought about the first one.

I was seven. My grandmother's house.

My uncle's jacket short at the wrist.

My shoes were wrong—my mother looked at them

once and looked away.

The folding chair tipped when I sat.

Someone behind me kept saying his name—

not loudly, just steadily,

the way you'd say it if you thought

saying it enough times would do something.

I didn't know you could do that.

The program had a crooked staple.

One corner kept lifting.

I pressed it down.

It lifted again.

I pressed it down again.

The name kept going.

The corner kept lifting.