Monday, September 22, 2014

For My Son

For My Son
Cleaning a room is an odd experience,
 like a trip into a jungle,
 where’ve you seen everything before,
but they suddenly have new meaning,

 or like an exotic trip,
one to the canyons,
where every useless item you find
 is suddenly valuable,
Like those old pants I bought you
the ones that never fit you quite right,
but you wore them anyway, just to make me happy
though I knew you never did like them,
or your mountain of mismatched socks,
 the ones I never could throw away –
even though we both knew I wanted to, 
but you, you were so adamant
in your defense, claiming that one day, their soul-mate would come
but that day never did come,
and it never will, not since the day
 I received that message, the one thrown
  on my desk in a crumbled mess,
the one covered in bitter tears so potent,
 the black ink smeared, pooling onto that ricketty, raggedy desk
             you spent all your time at, the cigarette dish still fresh,
your cologne, still too strong - the one that always
 made me sneeze - your faded drawings, covered in crayon and marker.
your favorite pen, used to write many of letters back in the day, your box of tissues
the tissue! Oh, how could I forget
  the tissue? The one you used to dab at my eyeliner
joking about how I looked akin to a raccoon
 and oh how mad that made me, but you
  you laughed it off, that deep laugh of yours
that sung a melody like the music box
A music box like a snow globe.
 My snow globe.
 Remember that?
The glass could never be cleaned, and the snow
 never quite looked right, but you
            worked so hard, throwing those darts
 and nailing the target, winning the globe
You held it proudly, like a trophy
 Then handed it over to me
            Now here it lies, clouded with dust

Is it still your trophy now?

What about that old piece of bread
 you kept in that liquid-filled dish
That grew a whole colony
 and I urged you to throw it out
  but you never could do it
How about your lucky ball cap
 that smelled and had more holes than it ought
            but you wore it anyway
your raven-black hair protruding through
 like a smooth pebble
  in a river that flew too fast

I would venture through this forest a million times
 if it meant I’d find you at the end
  with medals of gold on your chest

A hero, my hero

 Just like you always have been
            even with your quirks. The ones I loved

How could I not love them? You were perfect
            Always were, and always will be
You’re perfect to me

 I even keep that ghastly clock in my room
             that one that never did quite work
The one that goes off the same time every day
   if only I had a wish to make

But for now, I’ll settle with
 those dried, dead flowers
 given to me in the month of May
Proclaiming me at the Queen of them all
 I wore my crown proudly
            even though, it never did quite match,
My flour-stained apron, 
or weathered shoes
            After all, it was a gift from you
And like everything you’ve ever given me
            I’ll treasure it always. Even the grief
Because even this sadness, reminds me of you

Listen now, the clock is chiming
 it’s time to make a wish