A Theory on Alternate Routes
At our old house
I knew the path from
The back door the dog slipped through
Into a frenzy of yelling and worn car brakes
To the large footprints
(Obviously a result of the giants)
Carefully carved into the cement by the gate
And I’d always wondered
How the giants could ever get past it.
With small legs and chocolate colored eyes
I saw my little life morph
Through the bottom of drinking glasses.
My own kaleidoscope,
The warped glass revealed
A temporary backyard
I thought to be permanent.
One thing I did know
With utmost certainty
From logical child reasoning
Is that my legs could take me
Where my heart could not.
Bloody knees matter less
Than the unreliability of
All my sharpie marks
That sat on the door frame
Taken away amidst my own stride.
With the cluttered cabinet of pots and pans
An adult version of Jenga
All packed into the back of our car,
I reversed onto an uneven path.
And now I wonder
If the large stepping stones
Down by Jesse’s house
That my feet carelessly left for the sky
Have gotten smaller
Or if I’ve just gotten bigger.
A refrigerator is comprised
Of sticky smudges and newspaper clippings.
I was once the cause of the smudges
Now tall enough
To write the newspaper clippings.
My life of intelligence
In the fourth grade
Consisted of spelling bees and
Now my universe is filled with words
Some more meaningful than others
That I repeat, again, into the mirror
“Me and you, me or you, you then me. . .”
And I wonder if I, too,
Am now as empty as these hollow letters
Strung together with purpose and intent
Into a carefully crafted sentence
Like a well planned map that leads
To the exact latitude and longitude
Of somewhere yet to be found.
The path I continuously create as
Something close to an adult
Is different than the one
My gatekeepers envisioned
Back in the old Main Street house.
But I know we are told
It is about the journey
Not the destination.