The Day of Reckoning

I saw you coming.

Dismounting by the old barn,
long burned and abandoned,
brushing the dust off the worn uniform
before walking up to the house.

I know why you are coming.
To find our girl.
Wearing a peach-coloured dress, a thick braid
bobbing down her back, as
she ran into your arms in the orchard
behind our house. Under the plum trees
ripe with fruit.

You left her with me that summer morning
when the white lilac in our front garden was
in full bloom, its branches spread like a
bridal veil.

The rusty hinges squealed.
You are pushing the gate open.
‘Where is she?’ 
There is a rasping in your voice; I do not
recognise.

‘She left,’ I tried.
‘Left,’ you repeated, ‘Where did she go?’
‘City. To write poems. Dance. That sort of thing.’
‘Did you let her?’
‘How could I? It’s no life for us.’
‘What happened?’
‘Brought her back. There was work here. In
factories. Good work. Regular pay.’
‘Did she love?’
‘Some she did. But not for long. She wore
lacy dresses and lay under some drunkards
for a song.’
‘What happened?’
‘The war came. Houses burned, people died.
I was scared. She was too.’
‘I know. I was in that war.’
‘On the wrong side.’
‘It wasn’t the wrong side then.’
‘We never heard from you.’
‘Where is she now?’

I can glimpse a sliver of the sky over your shoulder.
Powder blue and silver.

‘I don’t know. Some said she sliced her
wrists last winter. Some said she went all
the way to Australia. With that boy that puts
women’s dresses on. Paints his face.’
‘And You?’ Your voice is back. 

It sounds as I remember. Deep. Rich. Deliberate. You
don’t expect an answer. We both know that.
I steady myself. Spine straight, eyes narrowed. 
Gaze into the distance.
Fists clenched into knuckles. 
As white as the first snow.

Not long now. It is what I have been waiting for.
All those years.
Even when they said I could marry again.
Easily. Into money, too.

I knew you would come back.
I am glad you did. I am glad I waited.
Your hand is moving now. Slowly.
You were never a hurried, nervous type.
You are pushing the edge of your uniform jacket
away. Reaching for the handle.
The old Russian Tokarev, your father, gave
you. When he came back from his war.

I know you are going to call me by my name now,
Danka. Look me in the eye, Danka. Look me in the eye, and don’t try to lie.
Like you used to.

But I have thought about it already. For years.
I will not look you in the eye. I will not move my gaze.
Not when metal hits the metal. When you cock your gun.
Not when the breath is drawn inward. When you steady your hand. Aiming.
I will not move my gaze.

I can see her already. Running. By the old
water trail. Overgrown with weeds and shrubs.
Running fast. Towards me. Calling me.
Calling me, mum.

Pull the trigger. Fire. 
I beg you.