As a Child

I bore witness; afraid to utter the word, addict. It was forbidden.

We wrestled with ourselves, proud of our bag of cranberries.

I’d toss tomatoes in the fields: straw was knee high, and

rodents were everywhere. Grapes were in season: we’d raid

the neighbor’s yard, snatch a few lemons, and head to our

honeycomb hideout. Often we played the dozens; but I lived

in a glasshouse; so it was quite painful. Such poison and

headache: powder and solids flooded our community. Parents

looked like zombies, asking: “What’s your name again?” 

Kids were astonished; fathers were drenched in liquor; and

grandparents played Nanny and Uncle. They guided dreams,

and fashioned laws, where good manners were demonstrated.

We each had a burden: merely eight years of age grappling with

demons. The future was rarely uttered: we lived it, unaware of

variety, pledging allegiance to a subtle pain; but deep inside, we

watched a cinema, where parents were sober, children were

proud, and a light at the end of a tunnel flickered brightly.