It'll be another night at home -
Just like all the other nights,
She hurries down the stairs,
In her usual black outfit,
Her face covered in makeup.
Pulling on her favorite black leather boots,
She lightly kisses the top of my head and says
"Sorry babe - I gotta fly."
She's gone to do her "work."
She's left dinner on the stove,
An unknown concoction boiling in a large pot.
It smells foul.
My mood is foul.
Where does she go every night?
For so long?
Who does she see?
What do they do?
And why does she have to dress like that?
The kids at school tease about her work.
They don't understand -
How hard it is,
How embarrassing it is,
How lonely it is,
To be a son of a witch.
Image credit: Lonely Boy by Mr. Ripley