I wish I were six again
if only to beg and plead
my mother to read me a story before bed.
I could read on my own when I was six,
but I just wanted to hear another voice say
goodnight
to everything in the little bunny’s room.
I found it funny when my mother said
goodnight to the moon,
and the mush,
and the red balloon.
It was soothing, relaxing after a long day,
however exhausting a day
in the life of a
six-year-old can be.
I would be on the bottom,
my brother on the bunk above me.
Mom would stand by the ladder,
using it as a book rest.
Or we would sit on the floor with her between us,
looking at the pictures as she read.
The green and orange of the room,
blue and white of the bunny and his pajamas,
the red of the balloon,
colors etched into our minds.
When I was thirteen
and finally moved into my own room,
I considered painting it green
out of respect and admiration
for the book
and now, when I walk at night,
I stare at the moon.
On a Monday I saw a very full moon.
It looked larger than normal,
brighter too
and I noticed something in the moonlight.
A painting, attached to some metal box
on the side of the road by liquid nails.
I don’t know why the painting meant anything to me.
It was simple,
a man drinking a cup of tea.
He was old and haggard, grayed a bit.
But there was a corner, a solid background.
A wall behind the tea-drinking man,
bright red,
standing out from the rest of the image.
I took the painting,
pried it off with the force of memory.
it hangs in my home,
that bright bit of red wall adding
a needed splash of color to
mundane rental property mauve.
Though I wish that splash were green.