8 A.M.

It's 8 A.M., Saturday morning

I've been up since 7 or 7:30 at the latest

to squeeze in a quick piano practice before today's lesson

and wait for you both to rise

Eventually, I hear the thuds of your bare feet

creak across the hardwood floor

and I emerge from my room, maybe letting

the dogs out or uncovering the birdcage or

opening the curtains to let the sun in.

Then you head back to your room

while I sit alone in the tan chair of our sitting room

And I wait . . .

Wait for you two to emerge like I did

Wait for your voices to float out to my ears

so I can eavesdrop to know if it's me

you're talking about

But I hear nothing except chirping birds and barking dogs

And then I notice clumps

of pet hair and sprinkled bird seed

and I decide I should sweep while you're out today

because that would be nice of me

Then I remember I'm not nice

"at least not in this house" as you like to say

A million years of charity

could never change your opinion

So I wait . . .

And I realize I'm like Bruno

from The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

Where you tell me not to do something

but you get to do it because you're an adult

So I can't stay in my room

but you're an adult and it's alright if you do

It's 8 A.M., Saturday morning

and I'm thinking

I should be treated like an adult