Exercise 5

The Crisis

“There are cases which cannot be overdone by language, and this is one.”

A towering tree. bright, green, umbrella leaves. Given to my mother,

on the day I was born.

merely a sapling. growing with me. my first companion of odd sorts. I love this tree.

watering it evreryday, trimming back forgotten branches, it soon outgrows me.

It survives countless U-Haul vans, three states of housing, and different porches.

“These are the times that try men’s souls.”

It has been dragged around tile floors, wooden decks, concrete porches, and pool linaies.

I appreciate the shade it offers, and the soft, smooth leaves it drops.

and drops.

But no matter what, the Schefflera tree copes.

still growing.

Always growing.

different surroundings

under the same sky.

“Her setting out in life, like the rising of a fair morning, was unclouded and promising.”

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“Get your dress on!”

“what, did you forget to run a brush through your hair?”

Picture days.

Church.

Family get-together.

“What does it even matter?”

DUTY.

Duty.

My mom seems frustrated. As if I didn’t turn out the way she hoped.

God did not give her a little girl, she says.

She shakes her head.

My chest puffs up.

I know she loves me.

just frustrated.

“you’re so stubborn.”

And I am.

I put on purple tights and a t-shirt with an animal on it.

I will not wear a dress.

I shuffle out of my closet, and grab light-up sneakers.

And as my parents tighten their ties, and cram into their high heel shoes.

As they cake their face with makeup and make their shirts immoveable.

I grab a tattered panda bear, tussle my own dirty blonde hair, suck my thumb, and draw a picture.

64 box of crayons.

I like the names like Macoroni-n-Cheese, and Blue-bonnet.

sermons,

lectures,

instructions, go by.

I draw.

create a world outside of this one I am required to sit in,

wait in,

believe in.

Their duty will not be mine.

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