Leaving her Behind
It should come naturally, after my training and practice,
after all, my first shoulder-blade-stretching-departure came early.
I loved her so, I made my mother find me that same
pink-polka-dotted dress she wore on our first day of Montessori,
when I was in coveralls.
When it was time to pick up and move, I was less than five,
but determined I would miss her, forever.
Then, birthday after birthday, I pushed past
the pink and white dress in the closet, not wanting to wear it alone,
until one year, it didn’t fit anymore, so I gave it to my sister.
Since that first exit, I have learned to advance rapidly
looking ahead at least three moves, assuming that
whatever it is I have already doesn’t fit anymore.
This way, I will never again pine as I did for that girl.
What was her name? Maybe it was Stephanie.
If you have any comments on this poem, Roheeni Saxena would be pleased to hear from you.