My in-laws are back for their annual visit.  Ten days of hosting,

which, for an introvert, does not come easily. My husband and I

rarely eat dinner together, and now I'm expected to attend

evening meals for more than a week and not lose my mind?

Might as well be under surveillance, four hawk-like eyes hunting

breaks in dutiful wife behaviour, cracks in that fading veneer: am I

being kind enough to their son, am I keeping my eyes in proper position,

can I prevent my face from betraying my true thoughts, though I don't

see why I should hold back the image of a weeping cherry that draped

pink petals three stories down behind my Cambridge apartment,

back in the previous century, back in another lifetime, in between marriages,

before I had found my footing, before I had come to ground.

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Carole Greenfield grew up in Colombia and resides in New England, where she teaches multilingual learners at a public elementary school. Her work has appeared in Still Point Arts Quarterly, The Antigonish Review, Macrame Literary Journal and other places.