When You Were Lost
There was no sky. No setting sun or twilight blue. No vanishing shadows to usher in that night, just brown and gray. You were five years old, maybe six, but too young for words. The playground was lonely. The wood chips, scattered by little shoes, covered the ground beneath the playthings, the silver things like slides and rings and bars, and there were pecan colored logs that built a tower, a four-walled fortress that rose above the other structures.
I'm a princess. You played this game all day with the other kids until their mothers took them away. A new game had to be invented. I hide from the monster. Down the stairs you ran, skipping steps, until you reached the core of the wooden toy. There, a room boarded with planks is where you pressed your face against the wood, peeking through a hole to see the softball field where the all-day tournament was being played across the street. You could see the bright lights shinning down on the field, now empty, the games over, and the cars were leaving the parking lot, red tail lights glowing. You listened for a voice to call your name and say "let's go," but you hear nothing. Mom? Dad? You pressed your body against the wood, looking through that hole and tears filled your eyes. You sat in a pile of woodchips; they poked your legs with their jagged edges. Would it have been better if they just hit you? A pain you could see. When did they find you that night? Or were you never lost, instead you were "in the way."
Daddy had a gold statue, and he put it on the coffee table. There was a party, and you stayed up late, eating beer nuts. Mommy had a stinky drink, and she put you on the futon. She forgot to give you a blanket. You slept bare-legged. Is that why you still don't cover your body? Halter tops, v-cut shirts, and tummy fat hanging over your jeans. You left with the first man to put a wedding band on your finger. He taught you not to hide because he expressed his feelings, mostly anger. You learned to fight, but you never showed them the battle scars he gave you—they're still leaving you alone. They travel. Spent a month in Montana. Big sky country.