The Bubble from Here to There

I'm there again,

all of 15, confused, scared,

like any other teenager,

it's a cloudy Sunday morning,

and Papa is watching Nat Geo,

there are smells of holiday brunch,

coming in, tide like from the kitchen

a sleepy, pleasant awakening,

nudging your sister, in her bed,

and fighting over who woke the other first,

arguing over who's supposed to make the bed.

Then sitting at our study tables,

and worrying about how much we would score;

This is the memory I woke up to today,

with a smile, and a desire to be there,

in that place, with those people,

I woke up alone, but I didn't feel alone,

And this is not even a poem,

why are my lines flowing in free verse?

why am I scared again?

why do I wish I had conjunctivitis again,

so that my father would clean my sticky eyes,

that my mother would hold me again,

and tell me that I'm not alone, that I'll be

all right soon, that I'm a strong girl,

that my grandma would pat my head

on her lap, and say words that would be wise

and cliched; that my grandpa would call me

his firecracker again, 'you're my lil' firecracker',

that my sister would tickle and scratch me,

calling me a moron, that my dog

would hold my hand in his mouth

and nibble on it without ever biting,

and this is not even a poem,

and I've come so far from everything,

that I knew was me, drifted off the coast,

did I know at 15 that the fear of failure

would make me lose the most promising

part of myself - not my words,

not dreams of success, not a boy,

but courage in my heart,

and the everlasting hope

of happiness...

They say, all is lost,

when you lose hope,

but this not a poem,

I say it again and again,

this is not a poem,

this is not what

really becomes of me.