It was mid-August,
maybe later, when I developed
feelings for my best friend.

I think I knew
when I saw that
the trees in the
backyard were dying;

they stopped producing
oranges, their leaves were
soggy, pitiful trinkets.

It was the day after
I stopped believing in Santa;

my mother saw it on my face
when she turned around
and offered me toast bread.

I usually ate bread with my
oatmeal, but the spoon
was still on the table;

the oatmeal still in the bowl.

She asked me what was wrong
and I shrugged. I wanted to say
I was in love.

I wanted to ask if being in love
always felt this terrible; I didn't
care to go back to school, nor
study, nor become the doctor
they wanted me to be.

But that's when my father came in.

I was sent upstairs
to my room, and was told
to memorize the fifty
states.

In between reciting their names,
I could hear my father yelling
over my mother, and my mother
choking on the words, don't leave.

I could feel myself choking too.

So I walked to my window
and saw the dying orange tree;

then I thought of my friend

and how I'd like to play

with her again.