mid-air mumbles

pause. sigh. go. hi.

the twenty-five year exhale

when i was itty-bitty, my
Mama told me that
thunderclaps were my Daddy’s
lucky strikes…so i wouldn’t
be afraid when the
lightning came.  i used to
picture Daddy in his brown
flannel—hair askew—smile half-cocked—
bowling with God on a
fluffy, white cloud.  sometimes,
i still do.  and it makes
the Boogeyman inside me
laugh.  when i’m looking
for my keys, most
days, i yell, “Daddy,
give it up.”  and two
minutes later, i’ll
find them in the microwave—
next to my mascara and a can of
peas.  it’s his way
of reminding me
he kept his promise. 
his body’s gone, but he didn’t
leave. 

late at night, sometimes, when
i can’t sleep, i
ask him about Mama
and Papa and Terry and Everett and all
the ones who left me
behind.  i ask him if i’ll ever
find someone to love me
half as much as he did.  i ask
him for monkeys and paid bills
and all the dreams i never wished
for when i was six—because i was
too busy dying, too.  and i tell
him, “one day, i’ll ride
a bike.  one day, i’ll be
the one you knew i could
be.  one day, i’ll be
worthy.”  but,
for now, i’m just
the girl without
parents, trying not
to skin her knees.  and he
will make sure i’ll always laugh
when i finally find my keys.

—aim, 6.15.10, all rights reserved.

Posted at 12:20am and tagged with: full width, colorado, clouds, sky, sun, poem, poetry, photo, photography,.

the twenty-five year exhale
when i was itty-bitty, my Mama told me that thunderclaps were my Daddy’s lucky strikes…so i wouldn’t be afraid when the lightning came.  i used to picture Daddy in his brown flannel—hair askew—smile half-cocked—bowling with God on a fluffy, white cloud.  sometimes, i still do.  and it makes the Boogeyman inside me laugh.  when i’m looking for my keys, most days, i yell, “Daddy, give it up.”  and two minutes later, i’ll find them in the microwave—next to my mascara and a can of peas.  it’s his way of reminding me he kept his promise.  his body’s gone, but he didn’t leave.  late at night, sometimes, when i can’t sleep, i ask him about Mama and Papa and Terry and Everett and all the ones who left me behind.  i ask him if i’ll ever find someone to love me half as much as he did.  i ask him for monkeys and paid bills and all the dreams i never wished for when i was six—because i was too busy dying, too.  and i tell him, “one day, i’ll ride a bike.  one day, i’ll be the one you knew i could be.  one day, i’ll be worthy.”  but, for now, i’m just the girl without parents, trying not to skin her knees.  and he will make sure i’ll always laugh when i finally find my keys.
—aim, 6.15.10, all rights reserved.