in the window of a greyhound bus

before I was supposed to remember
I remembered
we stayed in different places
rode on buses at night

I knew her smell
and her sadness
I watched her count pennies
for a pastrami sandwich

we slept on couches

my first memory
is my mother screaming
picking me up
we slept on a kitchen table
that was someone else's

as the rats scurried
beneath us 
I felt safe curled in her
arms

she probably didn't know
my home was her
she was probably scared
that she couldn't take care of me
that we would starve
homeless

she found a man that housed her
he called her sugar tits
and cunt 
threw the dinners she made
against the wall
my stepfather 
the man that raised me
the man that abused me
believed that women were
an afterthought

when I listened to them fight
I missed those bus rides at night
searching for a home
her arms around me 
while the world whirred past

whenever she had a man
she became a ghost
the homes she inhabited
she haunted
I waited in the background
for her to see me

it never happened
now that I am a mother
and I have lost the closeness to my
own daughter because of some man
that didn't turn out to be home

those
greyhound bus rides
falling asleep
in my mother's arms
don't seem so bad

the men in this story
didn't have these memories
they went on to abuse more
they didn't think about
daughters or wives
they just bulldozed on
until they were dead
or alone 
or in prison
​
the last time my mother held me
was on a greyhound bus
we sat in a mint grey green seat
with only each other for comfort

I fell asleep looking out the window
wondering where the next stop
would lead