The Letters Home

Today there is rain. Lots of it, in sheets
that spill over my boots and slap my face
for the insolence of looking upward.
I am reminded of umbrella forts;
the rhythmic pin of leaks into pots on
the kitchen floor; Frank on the radio.
Old Blue Eyes wants love. I want warm, dry socks.

Today there are tears. Just a few of them,
released, the gut-wrenching relief that a
friend in the hospital will be just fine.
I lay across my bed, hiding my face and
I am reminded of your philosophy:
tenerla insieme adesso,
ci sara' sempre tempo dopo a
sfaldarsi, cara. Or something like that.

Today there is sun. Lots of it, searing
my irish skin torturous shades of red
that really won't increase the melanin.
I am reminded of frilly pink hats
and fruitless sunscreen applications, lost
to the lapping tongue of the salt water.
You would say it's ironic that my skin,
like the rest of me, won't learn it's lesson.

Today there are exams. Lots of them, crushing
the hair I haven't pulled out yet under
the weight of pencils, shoved and forgotten.
I am reminded of bright red apples,
brand new notebooks, and waist-length hair in braids.
THere's a twinge of fear in my gut but you
always know best: my worst critic is me.
Ke$ha's on my iPod, needing a drink-
trust me girl, this week, I sympathize.

We talked on the phone today, and your voice
made me smile, even if things like hugs
don't travel well over four hundred miles.
I avoid the exact. Sometimes you'll ask me
What, instead of How, I'm doing this week.
If you wanted the truth, I guess I"m just
Learning how to be someone I like, Mom.