Thursday, April 2
Today was too long. I felt bad for eating cake instead of going to the gym, but doing the servers’ bitch work tonight was enough of a work-out.
I don’t know what sort of poem to write, so I’m just going to write what I thought of on the car ride home.
It’s strange how little slices of life join your arsenal of memories,
Called back, craving your attention, demanding the ache of longing.
I listen to the oldies track list played in my daddy’s car,
Which I stumbled upon by chance or fate or something divine.
They were the melodies and beats of a different time, a different girl,
A little girl who spoke to God, as though He would listen,
As though He was her only friend
A little girl who would sit in her father’s lungi
Like he was the sturdy tree that held the swing
During her many imaginary trips to a sunny summer farm
Where hopscotch and peanut butter sandwiches were the order of the day.
The track finishes, and the mood shifts suddenly.
My toes are no longer sunken in the Jersey shoreline,
Nor am I playing with dough along side my father,
Pretending to flip and twirl flying discs that could reach the moon.
Instead, I'm back to the verge of adulthood,
This scary place everyone keeps reminding of.