Uncertain Weather

October has uncertain weather.

A monochrome sky, I think.
Air that turns the AM radio to static.
Rain, probably,
since the roads of October
are always slippery
in my memory.

A darkness perfect for masks.

Mine was Casper the friendly ghost,
plastic and white.

There’s no screech from tires.
No thud of impact.

But there’s a bump in the road,
then one under the mask
from my forehead meeting the dashboard.

Maybe there was fog
There must have been fog.

Suddenly my mom is dropping me at school
with children dressed as
Superman, Wonder Woman, Bozo the Clown.

I slip off my mask
when the teacher passes out snacks:
pumpkin-shaped cookies,
blood-red punch.

She has known me for almost two months.
She must know I get hurt at home.
She doesn’t ask.

Years later, my brother tells me
he was the bump in the road,
that our mother pushed him from the car.

October has many twisting roads.

Some go through rain.
Some through static.

Some lead to my brother.

All circle back to our mother,
to the scene of a possible crime.

I keep my mask on
and continue through October.