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.

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