Or Special

My mother is special.

That’s what they say

When they drag me away

From that shiny white room

And I ask if I may

See her again, Wednesday,

Maybe,

And they speak in a hushed sort-of

Small kind of way.

And the man’s hair is gray,

But black on the sides,

With a pencil pushing the blackness away.

I ask why she drove to the bay that day,

When the sun was so bright and each single ray

Was glass on my face.

And they told me that she was just

Mixed up that day, and anyway,

In the end, her nerve fell away.

I ask why they treat her like some sort of stray,

Who can’t eat or drink or remember the day

When just her and me were special.

They tell me to sit in the room and just wait,

But I inform them that that’s what I do every day.

I feel all the strength I have crumble away, and I say how

Her mind is not just some game to play,

Or a moldable lump of just-anyone’s clay.

And I remember her covered in waves and with spray.

And the white walls around start to shout and to sway.

I picture her floating further and further away,

Until she is swallowed by the last golden rays.

I ask them how long she’ll have to stay

Within these white walls that get smaller each day.

They say she’s unstable, that her brain’s a bit frayed.

That it may be some time before she remembers that day.

I finally ask if she’ll be okay,

And they shrug and they say,

“she might be, someday.”

And I look up at the lights that flicker and sway,

And for the first time in forever, I pray.

I pray she’ll remember the really good days,

The ones with the laughing and the softer sun rays.

The ones when the ocean was miles away,

And not everything had such a steep price to pay,

And our worlds weren’t mixed-up or tumbling or crazed,

Or special.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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