I remember the old days.
How I'd pass the square windows,
Looking outside, the trees so far away, about "yeh-heigh".
How the beautiful colors of the leaves,
Warmth traveling along the hills and climbing up the mountains as a herd.
Always together, seperate, but together.
I remember when I hated school.
I couldn't stand the crappy lunches,
The PB&J sandwiches,
I liked jelly seperate,
Not together with peanut butter.
I couldn't understand things like every other student,
They had better, smarter, faster brains to work with.
And I had trouble with remembering.
When I was little,
About "yeh-heigh".
I saw a beautiful woman,
sitting at a desk, like every other older student. She held her pencil with her left hand, so I looked down at mine and held it in my right.
And in my mind, I was right.
I was left just like hers,
The teacher said something,
I don't know what, exactly.
I can't remember the specifics.
I'm vague like the clouds that hover the hills on an early day.
The prompt life gave to me were mostly visuals.
I remember walking with my mom along the streets, the side walk, for pedestrians.
I was carrying heavy bags, filled with dirty clothes, yet to be cleaned by the machines that hardly ever worked right.
There was a blue car, dark blue, so dark that it almost looked black but I knew it wasn't.
I'm particularly proud of my eyes.
The car's doors were open, the left side of the car's doors were open. The driver's door was open along with the passenger's door was open at the same time.
They were left open, just like that.
A guy was in the passenger's seat, talking with another guy outside of the car.
Did I mention that the car was parked in a parking lot? Not parked in those squares, like you're suppose to, just there, like they were waiting for something.
I didn't know what they were talking about, I just thought it was strange.
Math is strange,
You calculate things in certain ways.
So is English.
Everything is specific, long,
Some tests are long, and even more confusing.
I remember my mother laughing after I asked her a question.
"Why does the car have its doors open?"
Mom: What car?
Me: The car in front of us.
Mom: Up near the corner? The store? The parking lot?
Me:
I don't think anyone can truly understand my disability.
YOU ARE READING
Living in the memory
PoetryI created this book to write about my life. I want to show the world what I see and hear through my eyes. To show people the real me, all of me, instead of a name on a piece of paper. This is my story, it's a bit wonky and not organized beginning t...
