Yellow was the colour
of their house, green
the lawn upon which
we played – the house
of boys where fun lived.
Ours was two-storey,
red brick with black,
the colour of our air,
privacy fences blocking
outsiders, girls within
Never heard a voice raised
there, was served only milk
and cookies in the kitchen;
could not understand why
Mom said don’t go inside
but they had mini cars, and
trucks with working parts,
better than our dolls, and I
wished I could be a boy –
less complicated it seemed
And I wished my mother
played tennis with the ladies
and watched from the kitchen
as children played baseball
offered Koolaid in the heat.
Had a friend there, a boy
so kind and gentle, taught me
respect, protected from harm,
let me be me – was it love
I felt, at such a tender age?
We moved away, though,
left that sunshine house
behind, lost touch with
friendship, never again
to connect with neighbours
Everyone has something
to hide, Mom said, implying
ours was the better devil,
drank her Koolaid, too old
now to undo childhood’s lies.
(Image: suburbman.tumblr.com)
Wow. You painted a picture of a life. So incredibly written. So painful too
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Bethany! My sister and I still talk about how our family secrets taught us isolation – we missed out on community, for sure.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I abhor what the secrets do. To break free of them is so powerful
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ah those childhood memories… my mom wasn’t the soccer mom either. And I lived next to two boys whom we had a blast playing sports together.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Good times!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Indeed!
LikeLiked by 1 person