A brown clipboard holding some sheets of paper.
Names,
lists of them all signed perfectly
with the black ball-point pen dangling from a chain off the side.
Him,
a family member, one who I had respect for.
Me,
seven years old
told to wait outside on the porch while he talked to my mother.
A bumper sticker,
two people holding hands accompanied by a slogan,
“Marriage” it said,
“one man,
one woman”.
I was too young then to understand,
maybe I am still too young to understand,
all I knew then is that my uncle asked my mother to sign something,
war declaration for all I knew,
and I guess it was in a way,
a war against people,
and a war against choice.
My mother did not sign the paper,
the one with all the names,
one slot on the clipboard left blank for the next person to choose to pick up the pen,
that black ball-point pen,
and to sign their name,
slowly,
perfectly,
signing away a life,
but not their life,
they would go on, and on, and on,
but signing away another's life,
someone they would never meet,
someone they would never know,
but someone they already disliked.
Why?
If that clipboard were given to me now,
I would be like my mother,
strong in my determination not to scribble my own messy name underneath the list of others,
strong in my determination not to sign away someone else's life,
someone else's happiness,
someone else's future.