Two Worlds

When I was little, life was supposed to be filled with laughter, sticky fingers from melting ice cream, and afternoons lost in make-believe, toy cars and plastic dinosaurs battling in the living room. I’d look up at the adults, safe in their tallness, never guessing that one day, I’d be the one holding up the walls. Instead, my afternoons were cluttered with sighs, echoing through a quiet house, where I’d drag your slumped figure from the front steps, breathe in the stale scent of beer that clung to you like a second skin. Eight years old, trying to stand tall enough to be your keeper. When I was little, Mom was supposed to pack my lunch, Capri Suns and fruit roll-ups, instead, mom wasn't ever there I was busy slicing bread, rationing out the peanut butter, making sure my little brother had more than crumbs. I’d wanted crayons, chalk, new paintbrushes, OH! the pink bike, and maybe an iphone but my pockets held grocery lists, my hands chapped and rough, scrubbing dishes, sweeping floors, Searching for that imaginary line that had been drawn somewhere between us: the parent I wished for, the parent I became.