Fragments I Can't Forget

A concrete building on the corner. A bench on the roof. No reason. No welcome. Just there.

Lightning split the sky. I was small. They made me stay outside. The bench flickered in the storm.

Two hands lifted me. My parents ran across the street. I floated between them.

Cattails in the park. Crafts we never finished. The reeds dried before we did.

“COPS” on the TV. Daylight swallowed by curtains. My mother’s cigarette, passed to my tiny hand.

I couldn’t speak. From the crib I watched them— needles blooming, sleep like drowning.

A hotel room. The door cracked open by fists. My father pushed her out the window. They took him. I stayed.

Hospital hallway. Familiar. But today, they were the ones broken.

Red carpet. A dark room. A casket. No body. They didn’t let me see.

My mother disappeared. A new home. This will be my home. This will be my home.