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Posts Tagged ‘family’

I feel vulnerable and my body aches

with uncertainty.

I become anxiety

when my plans tank.

But I still want to hear about

your day.

What happened in class—

the notes you write her,

the next drawing you make.

 

My eyes are always inside screens,

my mind on what I need to do,

my hands on something

I believe is more important.

But it isn’t.

Nothing is more important.

I need to turn and face you.

Time is not running out—

It is right here.

And so are you.

 

I am not young enough

to walk next to you in the halls,

and not old enough to

pass off as your mom.

I am in-between friend and parent,

wanting to have more power,

to give you what you need,

What you want.

I care too much

about your fingers, your music eyes,

your swollen heart.

You are not my child, but you are

worth all my time.

 

You are not the reason

I worry about money,

about where I will end up.

I feel your gratitude

even when you are distracted—

We all get distracted.

I feel like I always am.

 

My uncertain life would be hollow

without your stories, music,

and yearning to be heard.

 

Yes, I am scared.

But if you ever left—

There is nothing that scares me

more.

 

 

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I want to shed you

of the path

you have to take like

it is an unwanted layer

of skin.

I feel like I need

to show you a side

to life that doesn’t exist,

or one that I want

to create.

 

I used to stay up

at night staring at

the digital clock

as though the darkness

was brighter than

the glowing numbers.

I want to bring you back

to when I was there,

to show you how

we rise up, come home,

and face the things

that throw us back

down again.

 

I want to pick up your

problems and throw them

the distance that the sound

of my heart is carried

inside of me.

I assure you the best

I can, but there will always

be that longing

for you to know for sure

and for me to be the one

that gives that comfort

to you.

 

 

 

 

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Between the Cracks

Photo credit: janeheller.com

Photo credit: janeheller.com

We peeled

corn on the cob

on the back

steps, like we

used to do

when I was

a little girl.

 

My mom held

open the plastic

bag, and I

stripped the corn’s

casing off.

 

Ants are

staking out

around our

matching black

flip-flops.

They are acting

like dogs,

praying that

we drop some

corn silk for them

to scarf up.

 

A baby hoists

a piece of corn silk

on his back,

and walks between

the cracks

back to his hill.

But, instead of

him saying,

“It’s mine!

It’s mine!

It’s mine!”

There is an

unspoken,

It’s ours.

 

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Stiff and restless

Photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org

Photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org

Your eyes

are squinted,

far away, and

glazed over

from the medication

and the anesthesia.

You try to run

up the stairs,

and you fumble.

I dive

for you–

I would always

dive for you.

You’re quiet,

stiff and restless.

You don’t know

where you

want to be

or

what you want

to do,

but I lay with you

on the wooden

living room floor.

We wait together

as you breathe heavy

out your swollen,

open mouth.

It almost sounds

like you’re purring,

but you are just

unsure.

The difference

in you

will pass by

morning,

but until then

I hold you

as you look

past my eyes.

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Losing it all

Lottery tickets

for 525 million

jackpot.

My parents get them

when there

is a ridiculous

amount of money.

 

“What would you

do if we won?”

I asked my mom,

as I sat up,

getting excited.

“Well,”

she started,

“First we would

have to get

our phone number

changed.”

“But why?!”

I love our

phone number.

 

People would call,

asking for money,

begging us.

Charities would

harass us.

 

But I love

our phone number.

 

So I ask my dad.

“Daddy, what would

you do if we won

the lottery?”

“What do you mean?”

he asked, sounding

annoyed.

“Like, would you quit

your job?”

I asked, not understanding

why he didn’t

sound more amused.

“Why are you asking

me this?”

He asked, clearly

not understanding

what a playful

hypothetical question

was.

“I was just playing

around…I just wanted

to know if you’d quit

your job if you were

rich.”

“No. I like my job,”

He answers blankly.

 

Okay, never mind,

I think to myself.

I don’t want to win

anymore.

I like our phone

number,

my dad likes

his job,

and I don’t

want things

to change.

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Where we are

On Christmas morning,

instead of a little girl

waking up,

at 7 am, running

down stairs,

skipping 2,3

steps at a time,

almost beating her

big brother to the

living room,

The girl wakes up at 8.

Her brother drives

over and meets her

and her family

in the living room.

They eat mom’s

cinnamon rolls,

open presents,

and the girl

goes back upstairs

to take a nap.

Her brother comes

upstairs, asks if

he can lay in her

bed and she say that

she was sleeping.

He says that

he will wait

until she takes

a shower

so he can steal

her bed.

But then he

lays down

next to her

anyways

and they just talk.

About his future

trips, their gifts,

and the fact

that they are

here.

 

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Photo credit: www.sfgate.com

Photo credit: http://www.sfgate.com

Late at night

you’d bring the

paper up to

your big reading

glasses

and I would

snap off

the last piece

of our Hershey’s

chocolate bar.

 

Radio on the table

next to the lamp.

You listened to

WEEI

as the voices

of the announcers

engraved memories

in my mind.

 

I hope

you saw it,

Grampy.

Your team

won

at home

tonight.

 

 

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