When I Dared to Write a Poem for My Mother
And how her reaction made me vow never to write poetry again
Doodles and scribbles, that’s what I write, a word here and there. During class, on the school bus, in my room as I hide from my mother’s unpredictable moods. My friends sneak peeks over my shoulder and I cover my words, the tiny print and elongated letters. We haven’t learned cursive in school yet, but my grandpa bought me a fourth grade writing workbook at the grocery store and I’ve been practicing.
I hide the workbook underneath my mattress because my mother doesn’t like it when her parents buy me things without asking her first, especially if they don’t have something for my little brother, too. The classmates who lift their eyebrows as they peer down at my scraps of paper can’t read the curly letters, but I still don’t want them to see. The words are mine alone, and really not much more than scratch marks. Today, though, the words snowball in my mind, like a dusty scribble above a cartoon character’s head.
This morning, I fell in the driveway hurrying to meet the school bus, and the icy concrete jarred the little bone at the bottom of my spine hard. My mother yelled and pointed at the bus, shaking her head at my tears, and I rushed so I wouldn’t miss the ride. As I sit inside at recess now, pleading a cold so I don’t…
