My Childhood
My childhood spread to the world in bottles of sun screen,
poured out into outstretched hands.
My childhood was painted across easels and written on walls,
Drawn far and wide, a Crayola-crayon land.
Childhood was served on plastic plates, microwave-safe,
To a table with plastic place sets.
Childhood was scissors found, and used, on not only paper,
But hair and chairs and everything else.
It was stickers and glue, playdoh and dolls.
It was broken hearts and broken bathroom stalls.
It was tears, and spankings, and moves.
It was fears, and boredom, and excitement at new shoes.
My childhood was a white house,
On a Hollywood Drive,
And a red house,
On Riverside Drive.
It’s the arguments, the kicking and screaming.
It’s the hugs, the kisses and dreaming.
It’s the little things, the band-aids and the duct-tapes
Can’t fix. It’s the cuts, the bruises, and the scrapes.
My childhood was a brown horse with a white star,
And a cream horse with a rainbow mane.
My childhood was an old, beaten-up silver car,
And a red doll, elmo, with worn out eyes and a long remembered name,
An old friend with a few rough patches from being thrown too far.
It’s staying out too long on snow days,
And jumping in puddles on rainy days.
Childhoods are the places we came from,
And the way we grew up.
My childhood is a memory frozen by a picture,
And loaded in a frame,
And stuck on a shelf,
To be viewed everyday.
It’s funny, the things we do
So we don’t forget.
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