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.