By Zoe Bernardi, Staff Writer
Above me, she carefully walks around the white and blue flowered floor
our soil, where we are grounded, our meals the nutrients.
In my purple pleather chair, my hands stick to the brown table
Ply the play doh, salty blue, green, and purple
carefully mold it in many balls and shapes,
blend blue and pink to make purple.
The tops of the plastic tubs are crusted with old dough,
dry in the sun from the large window,
the cat likes to lie on the sticky brown table,
warm and comforting.
The fridge, bearer of old baby photos,
doctors’ appointment cards,
and the drawings we made at school,
tracks our growth, what we have done
and of what we will do next,
when to water us, how we get bigger,
need bigger pots, food, sunlight.
She trains us to stand on our own, takes away
the trellis that we relied on, to make us strong.
But sometimes a thunderstorm breaks:
cracks our leaves, disrupts the soil we are planted in,
hides the sun.
We cry when the purple and blue play doh mix to
muddy brown, never a true color again.
or the cat attacks us for poking him,
or our quiz grade doesn’t make it to the fridge.
Then our parents
are birds and bees who nurture us back.
Father comes home
through the back door, the living room,
the doorway to where we all sit,
kisses her, my sister, then me on my head.
Later, we all eat dinner together,
when the sun sets behind us.
