Nov 2014
When I was a kid
Before I could walk
My mother would hold my hands and
Carry me across the living room
While I pretended to know
How to walk.
Over time, her grip loosened and
I stopped pretending.
King of the world, I would go
anywhere. Well, anywhere without stairs
If the doors were already open.
But my mother watched over me
And gave me the places I could not take for myself.
Time passed with haircuts and hockey games,
Trips to the zoo and preschool at Kids’ Harbor.
That’s when I learned to write my own name.
Justin. Big J. Big C. Michael’s learning
cursive and Stephen’s right behind me
and Mrs. Burns teaches me Spanish and
It’s the first day of grade 3.
Ms. Hailey’s class.
Wait, no. That’s not what happened. Go back. July 1999. I can’t. I-- This isn’t. I don’t have the words. This is not what the poem is about. I can’t cope. The poem is my vehicle for coping and I’m out of words. I can’t.
It’s the first day of summer.
1999. School’s let out and mom doesn’t have to teach anymore.
Home is different now, home is family.
Just like every summer.
But we don’t talk. And when we do, I’m pushed out.
I’m not ready, so I pretend. My hand in hers, but hers isn’t
there. Soon Dad works even more hours and Michael never stop hockey
and fighting. Stephen retreats into himself and Mom? is just a voice
behind a cold door at the end of the hallway screaming
I need you to take care of yourself.
And I don’t know how. And I reach for her hand to lead mine
but I’m met only with a cold door and screaming.
I need you. To take care of yourself.
Pull back my hand. Walk down the hall, holding the wall for support.
It’s cold. And I’m lost. But I pretend to know.
And soon I’m not reaching out anymore. And then I’m not asking anymore.
See I loved my mother. And I was afraid of losing her. So I did
all I could and I disappeared--learned how to take the world for myself.
Learned to move crowds with words, figured out the password to
everyone’s heart, valued language and excellence over all else.
In 2001, I taught myself how to ride a bike.
But the whole time, I didn’t know why.
Conditioned for solitude in a self-governed rendition of aptitude, I investigated
on my own. I only needed me to take care of myself.
I gathered that a bad man named Chemotherapy
had seen something valuable in my childhood, so he took it away.
Excanged it for a box full of hats and a script of questions for
everyone I know.
Before I could walk
My mother would hold my hands and
Carry me across the living room
While I pretended to know
How to walk.
Over time, her grip loosened and
I stopped pretending.
King of the world, I would go
anywhere. Well, anywhere without stairs
If the doors were already open.
But my mother watched over me
And gave me the places I could not take for myself.
Time passed with haircuts and hockey games,
Trips to the zoo and preschool at Kids’ Harbor.
That’s when I learned to write my own name.
Justin. Big J. Big C. Michael’s learning
cursive and Stephen’s right behind me
and Mrs. Burns teaches me Spanish and
It’s the first day of grade 3.
Ms. Hailey’s class.
Wait, no. That’s not what happened. Go back. July 1999. I can’t. I-- This isn’t. I don’t have the words. This is not what the poem is about. I can’t cope. The poem is my vehicle for coping and I’m out of words. I can’t.
It’s the first day of summer.
1999. School’s let out and mom doesn’t have to teach anymore.
Home is different now, home is family.
Just like every summer.
But we don’t talk. And when we do, I’m pushed out.
I’m not ready, so I pretend. My hand in hers, but hers isn’t
there. Soon Dad works even more hours and Michael never stop hockey
and fighting. Stephen retreats into himself and Mom? is just a voice
behind a cold door at the end of the hallway screaming
I need you to take care of yourself.
And I don’t know how. And I reach for her hand to lead mine
but I’m met only with a cold door and screaming.
I need you. To take care of yourself.
Pull back my hand. Walk down the hall, holding the wall for support.
It’s cold. And I’m lost. But I pretend to know.
And soon I’m not reaching out anymore. And then I’m not asking anymore.
See I loved my mother. And I was afraid of losing her. So I did
all I could and I disappeared--learned how to take the world for myself.
Learned to move crowds with words, figured out the password to
everyone’s heart, valued language and excellence over all else.
In 2001, I taught myself how to ride a bike.
But the whole time, I didn’t know why.
Conditioned for solitude in a self-governed rendition of aptitude, I investigated
on my own. I only needed me to take care of myself.
I gathered that a bad man named Chemotherapy
had seen something valuable in my childhood, so he took it away.
Excanged it for a box full of hats and a script of questions for
everyone I know.
