Young Kids | 2010
He took me there,
but it wasn’t the same anymore.
Years had taken their wrath
on its shattered glass and fading paint.
The bullets were another thing.
What remained,
bricks.
The only survivors --
residues of an infrastructure that once
stood for so much more.
I’ll never meet them.
The war outside may have ended,
but this family is yet to resolve its own battles.
I counted the windows.
Three.
Three bedrooms too.
My father slept there somewhere,
in a room across from his brother and sister.
Young kids.
The proportions of the house gave
it a seemingly humble appearance --
a dilapidated old shack
with a small garden at the back.
I closed my eyes
and there they were.
Innocent creatures.
Laughing.
Screaming.
I could smell the barbecue.
I envisioned the adventures
the siblings must have had
while fetching some wood for the fire.
Young kids.
Grandpa…
His stories are strange to me
but I always imagined
he sat by that old pine tree
with a pipe in his mouth
and a long stick, which he
occasionally used to tease the fire.
Long gone now.
But the young kids…the young kids remain.
Grandma too.
I opened my eyes again.
No they won’t come over for the holidays.
Not this year nor the next.
I’ve never met them; some rumors scared me too much.
Regardless, I wasn’t allowed to see them anyway.
The young kids are all grown up now,
and grandma’s ninety-three.
I hear she’s quite ill too.
Yes the kids grew up,
and they lost their father.
And as I stood there with mine
All I could think about
was whether I’d be allowed
to say goodbye when nature finally
took its course.
Does it matter?
Maybe…I’m not sure.
Then again, how am I to know?
I’m just a young kid too.