little 15

we had years together, decades of a misspent youth 

eventually we told stories, as families do

of how and what we recalled;

but there’s only me to remember these days 

so how can I remember so wrong? 

 

in my room reading

I cut my teeth on large tomes and small, thin novellas

frail pages turned an off sepia of gray-brown, fragile 

well before they ever got to me

books my dad kept, drug from place to place

books I would drag through the years as well until I parted with them all

Herbert’s spice, Asimov’s robots, Cherryh’s space station, Lee’s mockingbird, Sidney’s little Peppers;

I carried home as many as my long, thin arms could carry

as many as Mother would allow, disallow when her whim struck or the winds changed 

Katie, Flowers in the Attic, The Cider House Rules

all read before my thirteenth birthday, significant 

a day like any other, a day forgotten by all

a day scorched when I walked home alone, before the bell, in clouds of thought, bloody 

but I was never questioned on the content or titles, never censored

too many too much above my years’ comprehension

things that made the world outside seem wrong, seem strange, seem other

things that formed me made me kept me

alone in my room reading 

the world can fuck off while I pet my dog

rabbit’s foot, worry doll

worry beads, prayer beads,

komboloi, begleri, rosary 

skill toy, stress ball

warm fur and soft ears

sweet eyes softly fading

huge emphatic sighs

her calm is my calm

albeit off key

 somewhere someone somehow 

flipped a switch

my world is brightly simmering 

and my soul is singing 

I have a certificate in Adulting

sometime between

thirty-five and fifty-five 

I lost my ability to laugh

at vulgarity; I demurred 

became less? became more?

grew something inside 

from a seed laying dormant

something I always was

deferred to