brushes wrapped in newspaper.
Then soaked in turpentine.
The scents would make me high.
A little child at the time.
He kept them in the basement.
That one father that was mine.
With urethane mixed in to make it shine.
So many moments taken out of time.
I wonder, was he wishing then, to die...?
His back went out. The doctors
prescribed pills - another high.
The kind that he would never have to share.
Pain-free days of make-believe.
Pretending that he cared.
While deep inside, he sought the giving up.
Sleeping in his easy chair on sunny afternoons.
Letting all the world pass him by.
Too soon, they said, too soon for him to die.
Inventions left unfinished lay
around the basement then.
He made a noose and hung it
to the side of all he'd been.
Until my mother had a fit and slipped it loose.
She saved it in a rusted cabinet.
I never could imagine why.
They died o'er time. I cannot seem to cry.
The order that they left to me turned out
to be a mess. Whatever they were thinking,
I can't guess. I wander through their house.
The salesman says it has been sold.
Not wishing to be growing old, like them.
Inhaling once more before I lock
the door behind me. Searching
one last time for childhood highs.
They aren't there. I only sigh.
The hardest things in life lie in
the need to say goodbye...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .