We always sit on the patio

at my grandmother's house,

on momentous occasions like these.

And yeah, the cold cement in the warm sun,

it's seen so many things- my baby footsteps,

my 23-year-old tears, everything between.

ashes in the cracked pavement, watering can, grill,

ants crawling on the underside of the picnic table,

hanging plants, steel ladder propped up in the corner.

Those things were always there,

and it's not right.

Some things aren't important but they stay,

so what's the sense in that?

Can't I crawl in the grass like a child, bounce a ball

against the clean white siding,

draw in chalk on the rough cement?

The sunlight is the same,

and the picnic table, grass, cement and wall

are all still there.

Why then am I 23 and grieving,

lying on this deck chair,

instead of just a well-loved, happy child

sitting on the ground?

Center of attention always, catered to right now

for reasons I wish would go away;

they're taking good care of me like they always did,

but it doesn't matter anymore. I'm too old for that.

Feb. 18th 2003