by Jennifer Smith

Created on: August 29, 2010

SNOWFLAKES

Some days
 
my brother and I

would take turns pushing each other off of the bed

We’d hang around my room,

 we’d keep the door shut and we’d try to be real quiet because

If he heard us we might not be able to play anymore

Finally, one of us would have to pee and so we’d sneak up

And hold our ears firm against the inside of the door and listen,

During these times our eyes talked for us  

We giggled and instructed each other on how or when to move

Since I was older, I had a more keen sense of danger,

and sometimes, I had the courage to run

So I’d always go first

I’d turn the door knob gently,

holding it tightly at the end,

Then, just before that moment of release

I would pull the door open

Trying my hardest not to make that

clicking noise-

When I thought I was home free,

 I’d start across the living room

(always in my socked feet)

But my brother would never stay put like I asked him to

And by the time we had hit the bathroom door,

 our whispers had roared out at him-

Our stifled hisses and grunts had been enough to wake him

And that’s when we’d back into another room,

 The room just before the bathroom

And slither each other up into the shadows

allowing them to hold us

Now, we both needed to pee.

One evening our mother walked in on us,

hiding in the shadows and

She hugged us, more to allow us to comfort her, than for her to comfort us -

(Wait, which way was it supposed to be?)

She sat between us and we’d listen to the war raging outside this room

While plates crashed,

 Triggers clicked,

and obscenities flew,

we, still laughing

playing  thumb war together-

Oblivious, or so it seemed-

trying to focus on the fun we were having

instead of how we both needed to pee

That was the first time I noticed my mother tremble

She’d ball her fist together and squeeze them between her legs so we wouldn’t see

Still she smiled, and we always smiled back

Mother was a stitcher at the shoe factory

I remember she smelled like leather and cardboard

And I could feel the cloth of her blue jacket rub me 

As she lifted herself into my father’s

Green pickup truck

I did not care if she smiled at me or not

But, God, I loved her smell

It was like a spring rainstorm carried on a midnight breeze

With it, a sense of protection

And I would rest my head on her shoulder

And listen to the rhythm of her breath as she fumbled over the split seam on her green

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