I've never missed home.
Once gone, I was glad
to not remember that little apartment.
Second floor of a house, with creaky floors
that always announced my arrival on Saturday nights
way after curfew so I'd get in trouble,
stay in bed next day as late as I could,
to avoid scoldings about how a nice girl should,
do this and that, be good.
My tiny room could barely fit a child's bed,
second hand little desk was always a mess
'cause the nuns gave so much homework, sometimes
I couldn't even finish talking on the phone
before I was forced to eat a full meal against my will,
when all I wanted was to have fun, but instead went
back to my books before it was time
to put curlers in my hair. Not to curl
but to straighten it, tame it
while giving it more life.
Then on graduation day, I wanted to be
with all my friends, but had to stay
in crowded little apartment where too many relatives
gathered to see what a girl looks like
bound for college, wondering what the heck college is.
No one had a clue, but all wished me well anyway.
Drove by some years ago, not sure why.
Looked up at little apartment I never missed,
saw its windows looking out, stoic, still,
unlike my tears, uncontrolled.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)
Ugh. When my poems fail, they really bomb. Sorry. I've received a few comments with compassion about my growing up. My fault. I wrote this so tongue in cheek, I'm afraid I made my point much too obscure. My intention was to show how I was cared for, in spite of poverty, an uneducated family, they disciplined, taught me, paid for Catholic School and though they were vague about the benefits of education, they got me there. As a teen, I resisted and rebelled and yes the apartment was small, I didn't miss it, but in it I 'grew' thanks to my family.
Now I know how a comedian feels when (s)he has to explain the jokes. But it's all learning for me.)