Wednesday Poem: "Spin, Sparkle, and Lift"

Four more years

The story of this poem: When I was fourteen, I started counting down the years until I could safely escape my home. This was before iPhones, reliable internet, and the agency that those things would have allowed my young self. Back then, my tools were wariness and patience.

SPIN, SPARKLE, AND LIFT

"Four more years," sang the walls.
"Not for long," crooned carpet,
"Just four years."
My fingers searched the plaid weave of the couch. 
Each time I reached for the peace of my own good company,
My mother keened for me 
To return to her and the glow of soap operas on TV.
My place was there, 
My role to atone 
For the twin crimes
Of having been born 
And abandoning my mother’s aching thighs,
So coldly leaving her alone. 
I think she would have kept me inside forever, 
Held me as her hypnotic dream,
Her cinematic remake.
Who doesn’t love to cradle a baby?
I was two weeks late. 
Was I slow to exit, 
Or were the doors all wrapped in caution tape? 
"Four more years," sang the plaid against my fingers,
Those cushions clutched by tiny fists as my feet learned the floor. 
I craved the quiet of my bedroom, 
To cast aside the real world’s cruelty
For my boy band CDs 
And books about girls who lived in cities. 
But it hurt Mom when alone was the choice I took first. 
"Four more years."
I could do that for her. 
She didn’t deserve to go through any more painful shit.
After all,
A rocket
Does not have to take off as soon as it’s lit.
(However, it does cause much less damage
When freed to take its natural course,
To spin, sparkle, and lift.)