I am the pink chrysanthemum in my grandmother’s garden

A piece of nature that she cut with scissors 

And placed at the center of the kitchen table 

The small, crowded room with beige walls 

Where she would teach me how to bake 

With skilled hands that worked so slowly 

Humming Spanish songs while working

And telling me the secret ingredient was always love

To be patient and wait for our

Lemon cakes and walnut bread.

I am the black flats my mother wears everyday

The shoes that are starting to tear at the edges

That walk her to her office 

Where she types as if she’s a machine

Until her hand starts to hurt 

And her eyes strain from looking at a computer screen

She sits answering phone calls 

In a lonely, empty cubicle 

Pondering, wishing for adventure 

For a life she will never have.

I am the dirt marks on my fathers pants when he comes home from work

The dry tears of sweat that mark his face

A series of tired lines around his eyes 

Whose shoulders sink farther with each step

On feet that feel like they’re on fire 

Callused hands that are constantly adjusting the house 

Or the truck he drives everyday

Yawning as tears fill his eyes 

But he blinks them away 

And wonders when he will finally rest.

I am the white bookshelf

In the crowded room filled with children 

The shelf that’s decorated with fake orchids 

That is filled with an endless amount of soft books  

Stories of magic and mystic 

With creased spines that bend too much

And handwritten notes in between each weak page

Read by a single pair of honey eyes 

Who willingly escapes reality 

Instead of facing what is true.