It used to be little things.
Handstands in Grandma’s living room
Twenty games of solitaire (in a row)
Cutting worms in half to make two
Picking petals off a flower
“He loves me, He loves me not”.
Our tiny hands
Our tiny worlds.
The rain was just another day to play in the mud
Bugs were a mystery
And you’d fall asleep at night twirling Daddy’s hair.
That’s all that life was
And all that life had to be.
Now we spend rainy days on the couch
Dodging each drop as we run out to the car (God forbid it ruined our hair)
Mud smearing across the car doors
And your new shoes are ruined.
Bugs remind you of caskets and death
And when they put Grandma into the ground.
Daddy’s hair is gone
Ever since his head was scarred
From the alcohol.
Solitaire brings you back to Grandpa
Who can’t get out of his hospital bed.
And no flower can fix your lonely nights
From constant fights.
But that’s life
And what life has come to be.