A poem my sister wrote.
When my brothers were too young to be wise
but too old to name things creatively,
they invented a game called:
Let’s take turns jumping off Tom’s roof and throw the cat after the person who jumped.
At least they took turns...
Later, when my brothers were too young to be wise
but too old to not put their scientific knowledge to use,
they played a game called:
Let’s pour gas over this giant pile of weeds and then light it on fire.
At least they got Jordan to the doctor and his eyebrows grew back with minimal scaring...
Later, when my brother was wise enough to be depressed
but too young to know how to cope,
he would play a game called:
Let’s go to Tom’s house and do a lot of drugs and drink all his step-dad’s beer
At least there was that one English teacher who asked if something was wrong...
But really, what do you say to someone
when you can no longer laugh at pain or call the doctor?
I know some people who fight it all their lives
kicking against the goads till they bleed to death.
Others, like Dad, ignore it,
thinking that hard work, sunshine and the passing of time will resolve it.
Still others, like Mom, cast blame and ostracize you
by leaving condemnatory evangelical polemics taped to you bathroom mirror.
But now my brothers and I are old enough to begin to be wise
yet still young enough to climb on top of the roof and smoke cloves in the cold.
So I will play a new game with you, called:
Lets go together and bear one another’s burdens.
I will not laugh at your pain
I will not try to fix you problems
I will not ignore your suffering
or condemn you with my piety.
I will simply lie here next to you in the cold,
while we breath our smoky prayers at God.
but too old to name things creatively,
they invented a game called:
Let’s take turns jumping off Tom’s roof and throw the cat after the person who jumped.
At least they took turns...
Later, when my brothers were too young to be wise
but too old to not put their scientific knowledge to use,
they played a game called:
Let’s pour gas over this giant pile of weeds and then light it on fire.
At least they got Jordan to the doctor and his eyebrows grew back with minimal scaring...
Later, when my brother was wise enough to be depressed
but too young to know how to cope,
he would play a game called:
Let’s go to Tom’s house and do a lot of drugs and drink all his step-dad’s beer
At least there was that one English teacher who asked if something was wrong...
But really, what do you say to someone
when you can no longer laugh at pain or call the doctor?
I know some people who fight it all their lives
kicking against the goads till they bleed to death.
Others, like Dad, ignore it,
thinking that hard work, sunshine and the passing of time will resolve it.
Still others, like Mom, cast blame and ostracize you
by leaving condemnatory evangelical polemics taped to you bathroom mirror.
But now my brothers and I are old enough to begin to be wise
yet still young enough to climb on top of the roof and smoke cloves in the cold.
So I will play a new game with you, called:
Lets go together and bear one another’s burdens.
I will not laugh at your pain
I will not try to fix you problems
I will not ignore your suffering
or condemn you with my piety.
I will simply lie here next to you in the cold,
while we breath our smoky prayers at God.