The Myth of Childhood

A short time ago, 

I walked down the faded blue

Basement stairs.

Fire ignited in the furnace of my brain, 

As sounds of laughter reach my red ears. 

I begin to stomp, 

as sweat begins to drip on my back. 

The two of them are there, 

Curled up in blankets,

Staring at the giant glowing screen,

with large smiles on their youthful faces.

Like a bee to a rose, 

I am drawn to the voice of Robin Willaims,

My fingers began to tap out the swinging rhythm, 

and I began to sing. 

Without realizing I was leaving a stack of dirty dishes, 

a pile of  unsolved math homework,

the water still over the blue flames ,

I sat down next to my littlest sister, 

my eyes glued to the glowing screen. 

Never once did my gaze look upon

the glowing screen

of the digital clock.

I sat there, 

curled in the ocean blue blanket, 

squeezing my eyes shut,

grabbing my sisters hands, 

all of us shaking 

as Jafar becomes the giant snake. 

The door slams, 

and the magic spell is broken. 

I can now see the clock, 

it’s ugly greenlight 

Telling me I have wasted 

an hour of my day. 

My breath leaves me, 

I left the pot on the stove, 

I jump up and fly,

to the blackened pot. 

As I finally wretched the steering wheel,

back from the monster called Stress, 

my frantic eyes are laid upon, 

the pile.

The oozing pile of math homework,

With that fraction spilling on the table, 

A review sheet crawls like the undead 

And soon you are again surrounded. 

And even when Mom yells, 

Demanding that I be more responsible. 

I will wonder what happened. 

Why was I listening to “friend like me”?

Why did I stop and watch? 

The movie has been seen hundreds of times. 

I had gone down there to drag, 

The two girls up, 

Have them clean their spots and put away their backpacks.

An answer hits you, 

as I scrub the burnt pot. 

The magic called to me. 

The same magic, 

That 10 years ago

Was my bible

Came back to me. 

It wasn’t just nostalgia.

But the allure to come back,

Experience that same thing one last time. 

It was my last message from a close childhood friend. 

Reminding me that while, 

I have grown, 

I don’t ever have to forget,

the childhood left behind.  

That night, 

I slept for only a few hours, 

Hating myself for forgetting, 

The fourteen best years of my life.

“Thank you,” I whisper into the nothingness, 

“for the years that I can never have back,

For being my yacht in stormy seas, 

For being there when I felt no one else was. 

Thank you.”