almanac

Lucky

I reach to the very tippy top of my toes

To peer out the frosty window

To wallow in the white desert before me

The crumbs of ice and slush and cold are falling

No

Not falling

Crashing

Hard

The pavement is defaced with their anger

And sorrow

The cold bites at the cusp of my nose


Yet I am pulled from the rigid numbness of the war outside 

My mother beckons me

“Cocoa is ready!”

And the fireplace welcomes my return

Where it is safe

And free from the intense storm out that window

I am so lucky


The following day

I return to my stoop of observation

And there are children playing

Hopscotch


I am ridden with jealousy as I watch them

Their tiny feet puttering and pattering 

amongst the harsh white lines they have etched with chalk


I am consumed by my loneliness 

Filled only by my mother

And father

And brother and sister

And a large Labrador with his thick collar 

“Bernard” it reads


If I had a collar

It would read “Empty”

As tears drip down my fat cheeks 

Onto my satin robe


Falling

No 

Not falling

Crashing

Onto the wood and tin and plastic toys surrounding me


With no wood or tin or plastic people to play with them

Not with me 

I am so lucky


I retreat from the window

And my satin pillows are filled with sobs and snivels


But I have missed it


A new boy has come to play

He is snuggled tight in his nylon suit

Protecting him from the wind and snow and ice and rain


But not from them 


They kick

And yell


Stop

Please stop


They don’t stop

Until the blood pools around his bundled-up head

And face

And hands


But I am no longer in my sill

Watching

No

I am dreaming of hopscotch

I am so lucky


A week later

I return to my post

My eyes are no longer raw

But my surroundings are


Raw


Stung with the mourning and shrieks of fear

Trees are singed with anger

Over money

Race

Gender

Sex

But mostly just that


Just anger


The pavement where those lucky kids played their hopscotch

Now homes puddles

Of blood

And snot

And tears and more blood


The streets are flooded with Fatherless children

And childrenless Fathers

But I still have a father

And a mother

And My Window

I am so lucky


Years later

I visit my window

Where I once watched the children play


And die


But it is hardly a window anymore

Simply a peeling frame

Shards of glass on the floor


I am in it now

I can’t simply watch

And wallow and wail and whine


There is no glass to protect me

I am so lucky 

Almanac is our home for satire, sex, creative writing and much more. Satirical articles are intended as such.

Comments powered by Disqus

Please note All comments are eligible for publication in The Daily Cardinal.