Simon by Amelia Rhodes
White paint chips on the garage door,
you sit right in front of it,
criss cross applesauce,
caramel candy in your mouth.
You never match your own fantasies,
your own perception of who you could
be,
it has a way of wearing you
down.
There are traces of what it means to be lovely
in your stride,
and each step has trouble hiding you.
The air holds pieces of you in its elusive
drafts,
your hair, your scent, your breath.
I want to leave you on our collapsing
porch,
with the decade-old yellow Capri Sun straws embedded in
the cracks,
the wasps that nest in the moldy striped umbrellas
Dad bought when we moved in,
March ’83.
I could just
drive away in the rusted Ford,
leave the ancient tabby cats to starve,
leave the tap water on,
forget you tensing your hands
on the blue chair every grandkid unwraps their
birthday presents on.
Remind me of why I am here again,
can you?
I hear the drip in the sink in your never ending
mess
of a kitchen,
chaos.
I am the only one you don’t fold at the
sight of.
Who hurt you?,
presses into me, biting and
oozing,
can you not see that I too have been
weeping?
There are endless cleaning days,
endless cycles that pull at me,
tear you apart.
You are
the loudest silence.
You are what it means to really
end.
There is a house down the street we pass
on walks after dinner,
you got your first kiss there when you were
young,
tell the story like no one has ever heard it,
walking on air that night,
you loved it.
I can wrap you up in more balmy days when
I was in college and you were just a kid
wandering North Raleigh roads,
I can leave you to your firsts,
pray your lasts are not so soon.
I sometimes try to sleep,
you are constant and still,
the blue glow of the television
igniting you,
you have your thumb in your mouth,
like a child.
We both wake up to the drip of the
kitchen sink,
I guess I can stay a little
longer.