FreeWrights Peer Review™

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A Product Of --- ?

I stare in bemused silence at the picture before me
of the aunt I never knew who could almost be my twin
but for the years that separated us, and death,
which had come too soon.

'How can this be?'

I think, as anger builds and threatens to boil over,
of all the years I had tried to excuse his behavior;
"You are not his child." That's what I'd been told,
what I'd been led to believe.

Yet evidence to the contrary
had always been in his possession,
tucked away in a box
and covered by years of dust and forgetting.

Which was so painful that he had to pack it away and bury it?
The memory of her, his sister . . .
or the thought of me
and that he might be wrong?