Sunday, January 8, 2012

Little Pink Room

The movers came, gruff men, to take things out of the dabbled pink room
from dolls to Barbies to little stuffed animals left without a home.
The white crinkled curtains once hung with cheer, now moth-eaten and rough.
The tiny white dresser filled with clothes, from the bright lavender of an Easter dress
to the deep maroon of a pair of leggings like my sister's blood after the car accident.

The ABC carpet, the only spot of any real color, stained with the tears 
soaked up during the time Mom wouldn't let her have the newest Bratz.
Her big girl bed, snowy pale with swirls of silver, maybe slept in four times,
was carried away by the men and thrown into the back of the truck.
Mom couldn't see the room anymore, couldn't stand it left.

I didn't know what to think. That little pink room, those curtains, that dresser
used to be mine. I slept in the gold leafed crib, watching the mobile
full of Zoo animals and butterflies, dance above my head. 
But she is with the angels now, high above the mobile, higher
than any of us could be. I wish I hadn't been driving.

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