I wrote 100 pages
And not one for you.
You were between the lines, stuck in the letters
Glued to the invisible spaces
But not mentioned alone.
In 100 pages, I didn't learn to write about you
About what you are
About what you mean
In 100 pages I didn’t mention that
kindergarten and Hallmark didn’t help me
learn to deal with you.
In 100 pages, I didn’t mention how
in the gray dawn
you wake to shovel the driveway mostly by yourself, mom doing the walkway
before putting in 10 hours of work.
Or how you make sure that we're awake,
singing "Rise and Shine!" at the top of your lungs
laughing as we groan into the comfortable heat of our beds.
In 100 pages, I forgot that you rescheduled your entire work week
around our choir concerts,
baseball games, dance recitals, theater performances.
And I yelled at you because I was embarrassed
that you fell asleep during my only homerun of the season.
You put up with Broadway shows you hated
and movies you couldn’t stand
because we were your kids.
In 100 pages, I left out that
I laugh too hard at my own jokes.
I bite bottom lip when I’m too pissed to think.
I start conversations mid-sentence and I assume people will just know where my mind is.
I like the Mets of all major league teams.
I don’t make the bed.
I don’t tie my shoelaces.
I love dark chocolate.
I eat chocolate chips when I’m stressed.
I drink black tea.
I wear certain clothes when I want it to be a good day.
Everyone think I look best in red.
I don’t hug people who aren’t good friends or relatives.
I will always find Leslie Nielson and Mel Brooks movies funny.
I like messing with people, especially telemarketers.
I’m afraid of heights.
I know that American Flyer model trains are better than Lionel.
I know that sometimes the water is just too wet to go swimming.
I zone out when reading…or watching tv…or first thing in the morning…or late at night.
I rub my ears when my throat hurts.
I hold my pencil like someone is gong to try to steal it.
I get upset about things that haven’t even happened yet.
I bite my nails when I’m nervous, down to the skin if it’s particularly bad.
If I sneeze, it’s never just once.
And in 100 pages, I was afraid to mention all of this
afraid to write about you, because writing about you is hard
