sad poem

Little Things

It used to be the little things.

Handstands in Grandma’s living room

Sea monkey’s

Twenty games of solitaire (in a row)

Butterfly catchers

Cutting worms in half to make two

Picking petals off a flower

“He loves me, He loves me not”.

Our tiny hands

Our tiny worlds.

The rain was just another day to play in the mud

Bugs were a mystery

And you’d fall asleep at night twirling Daddy’s hair.

That’s all that life was

And all that life had to be.

Now we spend rainy days on the couch

And dodging each drop as we run out to the car (God forbid it ruined our hair)

Mud smearing across the car doors

And your new shoes are ruined.

Bugs remind you of caskets and death

And when they put Grandma into the ground.

Daddy’s hair is gone

Ever since his head was scarred

From the alcohol.

Solitaire brings you back to Grandpa

Who can’t get out of his hospital bed.

And no flower can fix your lonely nights

From constant fights.

But that’s life.

Those are the big things.