My dad calls me and my siblings to the living room
Where he and my mom sit, smiles on their faces
That, looking back, I’m not sure were genuine anymoreMy dad asks
“Imagine we moved to an island with two tents;
One with your mom, and one with me. Which one would you like to live in?”I don’t know much but I know I don’t like this question
So I answer
“I would put the two tents together so we can all live in one big one!”
Because that’s the only answer that doesn’t leave my tongue
With a foul taste, like when I somehow got soap
On my RingpopMy parents smile,
but I know my imagination
isn’t welcome on this imaginary island9 years old
I’m way too young
to feel like the tape
you use to close that tattered box
that somehow became too small to hold your Christmas treeBut putting the tree back at work today
I realize that’s exactly how I felt11 years old
My parents are fighting
(Again)
And I guess it must’ve been really bad
Because my mom storms up
And tells us whatever the reason they were fighting
(Or maybe just because of the fighting)
She was moving out Feburary of next yearI remember crying
But I don’t remember being sad
Or surprised14 years old
Twice as old as I was
When they first asked
And I still don’t like
Choosing tents
16 years old
I love her enough to call her “Ma”
But mom doesn’t like that so I stop
I wonder if she knew the love was
Still there
I wonder if it’s my fault
She left
19 years old
In a few years
It’ll be socially acceptable
For me to get married
And of course
If that happens
I hope it works out
Of course I hope
Life in general will work out
That I’ll make my parents proud
But if it doesn’t
When it doesn’t
I hope they remember
Who it was that taught me
Promises are made of glass
You must be logged in to post a comment.