7 is for the sirens outside my door.
For the uninvited hands which relentlessly wrap around my torso,
lifting me up from the comfort of my dreams.
7 is for the screams of desperation escaping my mother's mouth,
the string of curse words she only knows how to pronounce.
7 is for the look in my father's eyes.
7 is for the look in my eyes.
7 is for visits once a month.
7 is for metal detectors, bare feet on cold, tile floors, unwelcoming stares, "step back and wait your turn".
7 is for hourly visits out in a courtyard which fails to resemble the comfort of my backyard.
7 is 267 miles away.
7 is for the way my mother's hand no longer reaches for his.
7 is for the papers which he unwillingly signs.
7 is for one-sided closure.
For the way which he still speaks of her the way astronomers speak of constellations, the way painters view their muse,
the way my mother refuses to let go of her pride.
7 is for the slight possibility of some luck.
The chance that she might backtrack in her thoughts to a time in which divorce only meant being away from the one she loves.
7 is for luck.
7 proves to be untrustworthy.
7 drags about an uncertainty which one cannot fathom.
7 brought about a spur of events enough to fill a decade in the span of a year.
7 marked the age in which I learned to view things from the other side of the spectrum.
But 7 is lucky.
You see, 7 taught me how to coat the absence of my father with the absolute presence of my mother.
7 taught her to rebuild my kingdom without a king.